Lost and Found
by WinJennster
Summary: A hunt goes terribly wrong, and Dean's gone. Sam's left to pick up the pieces of his life. An unexpected reunion brings the brothers back together, but Dean's changed. Then an accident puts Dean's life on the line again. In the end, will there be anything left of Sam's brother? First person POV Dean, Sam, and Bobby. Not Slash. *COMPLETE*
1. Fallen

Oblivion whispers my name more insistently now. She wants me. She's becoming harder and harder to ignore, the bitch. I'm running out of time and I damn well know it. Blood is dripping out of my body faster than it has any goddamn right to. The blackness at the edges of my eyes draws in closer.

I am perfectly ok with dying. The business I'm in, the risks I take, I knew it would come sooner rather than later. I'm going down in a blaze of glory. Just like Bon Jovi. So, I'm ok with that.

What I am not ok with, and the reason I am still fighting, is because I don't know where he is. I don't know if he's even still alive.

Trying desperately to pull myself up, I fail again, and the pain consumes me. I know I can't fight it anymore, that no matter how much I want to find him, want to know that he's ok, my time is up.

There's nothing I can do about it. As the blackness sweeps over me, I sink back into the bitch's arms. Oblivion wraps herself around me and the last thing I am aware of is his name on my lips.

"…Sammy…"

* * *

I'm dazed, and I definitely have a concussion. My skull feels entirely too small to contain my throbbing brain. I have blood on my hands, and I think there's a deep gash across my belly.

I wish I could remember more than just him screaming a warning, but I know, once again, Dean has saved my life.

I have no clue where he is now though, the beams in the old mine collapsed so quickly, the rubble pile is so huge…God, I realize, he could be _under_ it.

There's sunlight where I am, I can see it coming through the cracks in the rubble. The pile near the entrance isn't as large, and I will probably be able to get out that way.

Not that I have any intention of leaving without knowing what happened to my brother. And that means trying to get through the massive pile behind me.

Running a hand through my gritty hair, I do my best to focus on the task before me, and try to formulate some type of plan. Yeah, a plan for my broke ass to attempt to move eight tons of rubble to find my brother. That will be a piece of cake.

I realize there is no way I can do this on my own. I don't want to leave him here, but I don't know what else to do. I have to find help.

With a deep sigh, I move towards the entrance, preparing to dig my way out.

* * *

The second I answer the phone, I can tell something is terribly wrong. Sam is gasping through sobs, screaming that he can't find him, there's too much rubble. When he finally gets a semi-coherent sentence out, the most I can figure is that those two idjits attempted to blow up a Wendigo's den in an old mine and brought the place down on themselves for their trouble.

Sam is apparently in a hospital after collapsing in the middle of the small town and is now hysterically trying to tell me where he thinks Dean is and can I please come get him and help him find his brother.

I tell him I'm two days out, but that I'm on my way. He thanks me profusely, still sobbing like a child. He must have a concussion. Sam has never done very well with them.

I tell him to hang in there, I'll be there as soon as I am able, and disconnect the call. I move to my computer and pull up airline listings. I know I don't really need to worry about weaponry; the boys will have more than enough. It's time I am worried about. I book the first flight into Pittsburg, noting that it will take me an hour to drive to the Pennsylvania ghost town my boys are holed up in.

That's right, _my_ boys. Because they have been for a long time. Mine, that is. I couldn't love or care about them more if they were my own flesh and blood.

"I'm coming Boys."

* * *

I wake up again, gratefully noting the restraints are gone. I guess I flipped out hard yesterday, was it yesterday? Time is not making any sense to me right now. My head still hurts, and I am still sore in my guts.

Abdominal blunt force trauma. Apparently it's damn amazing that I walked the six miles into town in my condition. I guess I couldn't remember where the hell we put the damn car. The docs say I collapsed in the middle of Main Street, out of my mind with the concussion and my spleen about to blast off.

I don't remember any of this. My last memory is standing in that damn collapsed mine arguing with myself about leaving Dean behind.

Dean.

I wonder if he's even still alive. I know they sent search crews up there to look for him. They keep calling it recovery. No one has said the word rescue. This bothers me more than I can possibly express.

Bobby's coming. I spoke to him yesterday…I think it was yesterday. I'm surprised when the Doc tells me this is the most coherent I have been in three days.

He also tells me Bobby is already here, but left to go up to the mines to help look for Dean. It's ridiculous that hearing that makes me cry, but knowing Bobby is already on the job is such a huge relief. Unfortunately, the nurses read my tears as something else, apparently I have been quite the unmanageable patient. Something cool is fed into my I.V. line and my whole body relaxes.

I'm back to blackness before I can even blink.

* * *

No sign of Dean. None at all. The rescue workers have been down there for three days, and there's nothing. They found the mine entrance and the rubble piles just as Sam described. We know it's the right place, they also found Sam's Taurus.

But, Dean, well he seems to have vanished. They are concerned now that he may have been forced down the open shaft they found. That he might be further down the mine then anyone had considered.

I don't want to think about it, but my boy is probably dead. I don't know how he could survive any type of fall in here, not to mention the fact that he's been here for three days, with no food, no water, no means to keep warm. It's cold. It's December and it's cold.

Trying to shove off the worry, I again pull Dean's dirty boxers out of the plastic bag for the dogs to sniff. The crew up here is already talking about Dean in the past tense. I can't tell ya how that's ripping me to shreds. I don't want to be the one to go back and tell Sam his brother's gone. I don't want to be told his brother is dead.

I'm standing at the entrance when I hear the shout. They've found something. Is it Dean's they ask?

I turn the item over in my hands, feeling the tears well again, and I force the down the lump in my throat as I nod the affirmative.

I'm holding a jacket. A beat-to-hell, blood-stained, brown leather jacket.

* * *

Bobby lays Dean's jacket in my lap, and I swear my heart stops. They're giving up, he tells me, his eyes full of unshed tears. It's too cold, there's just no way he's still alive. I burst into tears. I can't stop the sobs and Bobby sits next to me on the bed and pulls me into his arms and just holds me.

I cry until there is nothing left and then I cry some more. Dean and I always knew, it was always in the backs of our minds that a hunt could go south, and one, or maybe both of us, wouldn't make it out. I had allowed myself the luxury of thinking we would probably go down together.

I find myself wishing we had. I'm so broken. I feel myself losing it again, and the nurses are there, telling Bobby I have to calm down or they will have to sedate me again. I don't understand. My brother is gone. Can't they have a little fucking sympathy? Is that too much to ask?

Apparently I screamed that last part instead of just thinking it, and it's just a moment before I feel that coolness in my I.V. and my vision starts to go.

I am still in Bobby's arms, still sobbing my brother's name, and this time when the blackness beckons, I don't even make a half-ass attempt to fight it. I welcome it, and go there gladly.

Truth be told, I'd be happier if I didn't come back out later. Let me stay here.

Let me die here.


	2. Searching

I'm sitting in a chair, staring out the window, watching a blizzard. Can't even see all the cars piled up in the salvage yard. It's been six weeks. Six weeks since life as I knew it ended. Bobby says I can stay as long as like, and honestly, I don't have anywhere to go. I don't want to hunt. Not without Dean.

The Impala sits under a cover in the yard. I can't stand to look at it, let alone drive it. The first couple of weeks, when I couldn't sleep, I would sometimes take a blanket and go out and lay in the back seat and talk to my brother. I still haven't come to terms with him being gone. Bobby wants me to talk about it, but I can't.

I still feel so…numb. Maybe it would help if we had a body to bury. Maybe it would make it more real. I don't know. I just don't know anymore.

I miss him so bad, it burns. I don't know how to handle this. I wake up every morning disappointed that I'm still alive. I know that isn't healthy but I also don't know what to do about it.

Every time Bobby leaves, he hugs me and says he'll be back. I know he's waiting for the day when he comes back and I've finally gotten brave enough to end it all.

I wish I was brave enough. I wish I was strong enough.

I wish Dean was here.

I wish so many things, but none of them come true.

So every morning, I wake up. I go through the motions. I help Bobby as much as I can, and usually drink myself into a blackout by bedtime. Heh. I'm drinking more now then Dean ever did.

That's my life. Insomnia, shuffle through a day, drink myself to sleep.

Yeah. I'm doing great.

* * *

I hate leaving him. I know one of these days I'm going to come home to a body. I don't know how much longer Sam is going to hold out. He's gonna do something stupid, I can tell. I wish I could help him, but all I can do is provide a roof over his head.

He doesn't go near the Impala anymore, and the only time he goes out at all is to hit a liquor store. He sleeps with Dean's jacket rolled up next to his pillow. Sam's a broken man. I don't know how to help him.

My heart is broken too. I miss Dean so much, but I do my best to hold it together for Sam's sake. I'm grateful John isn't around anymore. I don't think he would've handled this very well and I can just imagine how he and Sam would fight over whose fault it was when really, it was no one's fault.

We made a small memorial out behind the yard, at the edge of my property. It's at the base of an ancient oak tree where Dean and Sam used to play a million years ago. I made a small white cross, and when the spring comes, maybe I'll plant a rose bush or something. I put a low bench out there too, and I've found Sam out there many days, no matter the weather, talking to Dean like he's right there with him.

I've never seen someone so lost, so without an anchor, as Sam is now. When I say I don't know how to help him, I mean it. I don't. I've lost people I loved before, but Sam losing Dean? It's like he lost half of himself.

I'm worried. I'm worried and frustrated, and I don't know what to do.

* * *

April. It's been almost five months since we lost Dean. It's been a struggle every step of the way. I wouldn't have made it without Bobby. He held me up, made me eat, and threw out all the liquor. He started dragging me out on hunts with him. He pushed me out of the fog I was living in and snapped me back into life.

I still miss Dean every day. I still think about him every day. Once the weather gets to be warm enough, we're going back to the mine. We're going to try and find Dean's body. A gruesome task, but Bobby knows I need closure.

I'm sitting outside now, sitting on the bench near the little white cross Bobby made. I sit here at least once every day, and tell Dean about everything. I tell him about what Bobby and I are doing; I tell him how much I miss him. I tell him all the things I wish I had said when he was alive.

I tell him how much I love him. How grateful I am to have had him for a big brother. I smile when I think about how he would torment me for being a girl. He'd call me Samantha, and tell me to stow the chick-flick, touchy-feely bullshit.

Wiping tears out my eyes, I tell him that soon Bobby and I are coming to find him. We'll give him a hunter's funeral like he should have had all along. I dread the task of combing the old mine looking for him, but I don't believe I am ever going to be able to move on if we don't find something.

I don't admit it to Bobby, he'd think I was crazy, but until I have a body, some type of solid proof that Dean is really dead, there will always be some part of me that believes he might still be out there. It's stupid, I know that, but some small part of me refuses to let him go.

Sighing, I stand up, and quietly tell Dean I'll be back later. I promised Bobby I would make dinner, and then we are going to start making our travel plans.

Maybe, just maybe, another month and all this will be done, and I'll know for sure. I need to know.

I need closure.

* * *

May. Hard to believe that the last time I was up here, there was snow on the ground. Sam and I have done all the research on this place.

It's a small mine, only goes about sixty feet down. Was abandoned fairly quickly due to the ore vein running out. We were able to get a schematic from the town's historical archives. Sam and I should be able to run the whole place in about three days, if not faster. Most of the rubble was cleared during the initial search.

I'm still angry at the so called rescue effort. Three days was all they allotted my boy, saying the cold and the depth of the mine would have made survival damn near impossible. I wonder what might have happened if Sam and I had demanded they look longer, and searched the entire place.

I know I am fooling myself. The night the boys went down was -12. He would have frozen to death. I know that's one of the main reasons they gave up.

Sam wraps a length of climbing rope around a thick tree and tests his weight against it. He wears a determined expression. He's hoping to find evidence of his brother. Not of his brother's death mind you. He wants to find something to give him hope that maybe Dean got out of here. It won't be pretty when we find the boy's body.

I'm afraid I will lose Sam to his despair, and it's only been fairly recently that he started acting like himself again.

Sighing, I move forward to help him into the harness. He's insisting on repelling into the shaft on his own. We can't go through the front, it's been secured. Sam adjusts the light on his headband and smiles tersely at me.

"Here goes nothing," he huffs, and drops into the shaft.

* * *

Three days later, and all we have to show for our efforts is Dean's amulet and 1911. There is zero evidence of his body down there and we have combed every last tunnel and crevice. We even found the burned up remains of the Wendigo.

I don't know whether to be crushed or elated. No body means that it's possible. It's possible Dean is still alive somewhere. He could be laying in a coma ward somewhere; he could maybe have memory loss, and not know who he is. Whatever, for the first time in months, I feel a little spark of hope.

Bobby and I are sitting in a motel room, both of us working the phones. We are calling every hospital, police department, and medical examiner's office in a hundred mile radius. We are leaving a description of Dean with everyone we manage to talk to. If he's out there, he'd probably be a John Doe. If he was conscious, or remembered us, he would have called.

I know Bobby isn't as hopeful, I overheard him on his phone telling Rufus that he thinks Dean's body was drug off somewhere by animals. I am grateful he is still helping me with this.

But even I am started to feel the uselessness of it all. This search is pointless. If he were a John Doe in a coma, or even dead, they would have run his fingerprints. And that would have brought them to Agent Hendrickson. Dean's wanted in two states on murder charges. If he had been found and arrested, that would have made the news. Bobby and I always keep up with the news.

Still. I am not giving up. It will take a lot more than this to convince me to let it go.

I. Will. Find. Dean.

* * *

I stare into the mirror and I ask myself the same question. I get the same answer. Nothing.

My entire life is a blank slate. I have a name, it means nothing. I have a job. I fix cars. I know how to break down a small block 350 and put it back together again, but I don't remember where I was six months ago.

I woke up in an alley in Pittsburg. I had a wallet with a driver's license in it. No cash, no business cards, no other shred of identity beyond the ID. 'Dean Hetfield' it reads. The first name seems sorta familiar; the last name too, but not in the same way. Like that makes any sense.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes drifting down to the bizarre tattoo on the left side of my chest. It's like a star with flames around it. It's a clue, I know.

Reggie at the garage says I should go to a police station and have them run my fingerprints. That maybe I am in the system and they can help me find out who I am and if I have family somewhere.

I can't tell him how afraid I am of cops. I can't even figure out why I would be.

Reggie's a great guy. I needed a job, and a place to stay, and he took pity on me. He lets me use the room above the garage, and once I proved I more than knew my way around an engine block, he let me stay. Pay's decent, I have enough to get by, and even get a beer or three now and then.

But still, I know I am lost. Someone out there is looking for me. I don't know how I know this. Maybe it's the nightmares. Freaky dreams of people with all black eyes, and a silver gun in my hand, a man with shaggy hair. I wake up screaming a lot of nights.

Sometimes, it's right there, just below the surface. I just can't get my hands on it.

I just want to remember.


	3. Alive

I drop Bobby at the airport and he gives me a hug, holding on a little longer than I'm comfortable with. He's heading back to Sioux Falls, and I am staying in Pennsylvania with the Impala. He wants me to come back with him, but I won't. I have plans.

I have maps of the area surrounding the mine, and I have cordoned off sections. I am going to search each section until I have been through the entire area. I've been interviewing everyone in the town. I am pretty sure they would all prefer I go back with Bobby as well.

Bobby is worried about me, afraid I am close to the edge again. He's right. I am close to the edge, and if I don't find out what happened to Dean, I am going to fall apart. I just have…I don't know, a feeling? An instinct? Almost like I can still feel him, like some part of me would know if he were dead.

Heading back to the motel, I stop into a gas station and fill the Impala. I grab some snacks for the hour long drive back and toss them in the passenger seat. I go to fire up the engine and nothing happens.

Swell.

I don't know a damn thing about cars, that was always Dean's domain. The Impala makes a metal on metal grinding noise, but refuses to turn over.

Of course this would happen the day Bobby goes back. Bobby probably would know exactly what's wrong and have it fixed within an hour or two. I will have to have it towed to a repair shop.

Well this day sure is off to an auspicious start.

* * *

I head downstairs with a mug of coffee in hand, ready to start the day. I have to say, I do love my job. Our shop deals with a lot of classic car owners, and boy have I got to put my hands on some pretty ladies in the past six months.

Reggie figured out pretty quick that while I didn't know much about modern electronics and computers, I did know plenty about the classics. I proved myself on '69 Chevelle SS with a bent rocker arm. Took me ten minutes to diagnose.

Some of the other guys resent my presence. Reggie gave me the biggest bay all the way at the end of the shop; it's the one he himself uses. I didn't have any tools of my own, so I use all of his. Each mechanic in the shop has his own bay. They keep all their tools there, and have it set up the way they like it. Most of those guys have worked hard for where they are, and I think they see me as an intruder of sorts.

Reg hands me a work order for my first job of the day. It's a '67 Chevy, owner says it won't start.

"You can fix it Dean. My own personal car whisperer." I smile at this, grab the keys and head out to the lot to get my charge.

I stop dead in my tracks when I see her.

She's beautiful. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Sleek and gorgeous and black as midnight, I feel drawn to her. I run my hand along the rear quarter panel and up along the passenger side roofline. This one is a rare beauty too; a four door, hard to find, and in such good condition. Whoever owns this girl loves her and treats her right.

"Hello Baby," I whisper reverently, unsure, uncertain. I feel like I know her. I slide into the driver's seat, and attempt to fire her up. A nasty metal on metal sound greets me. A starter, I think, Baby just needs new starter.

Why do I keep calling her that? Like she's mine or something?

I really must be losing it.

* * *

I take a taxi to the repair shop the next morning, anxious to pick up the car and get going. Reggie, the shop owner, says it was just a starter, and that his guy figured it out pretty quick. I am so glad it wasn't anything serious. I have enough money to last awhile, but a major repair would have drained it pretty quickly.

I get to the shop, and Reggie yells down into the bay for someone to bring the Impala up to the front. I pay the man and walk outside to wait.

When he gets out of the car and turns to look at me, time stops dead in its tracks.

Spiky dark blonde hair, black tee-shirt, green eyes, big grin. I can't believe it.

"Dean?" I whisper, and he looks at me, and his grin fades. He seems surprised I know his name.

"Do I know you?" he asks. My heart is pounding out of my chest. He's staring at me, and I can tell he doesn't recognize me. I have to hold back, but I swear it's taking everything I have not to rush around the car and hug him. I know it's him, I don't need any proof. He's clearly dealing with what I suspected all along. He doesn't remember who he is, so it makes sense he doesn't remember me.

I'm not sure what to do; I don't really know what to say.

"You don't remember me?" I ask quietly, and he shakes his head, confusion, and something almost like fear, lighting up his eyes. I am going to have to take this really slow and try not to spook him.

"Ok. My name is Sam Winchester. Your name is Dean Winchester. You're my brother." He looks at me, completely bewildered.

"My license says Hetfield, Dean Hetfield."

"Yeah, that's right, Hetfield like James Hetfield from Metallica. You always go for rocker's last names." Dean's face becomes even more confused, and I can tell he is having trouble processing all this.

"Why would I lie? Why would I have a fake ID?" I sigh and run a hand through my hair and then pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Look, man, it's a really long, long, story. We should go somewhere and talk." He shakes his head.

"Look you're right, I don't remember you, but I don't think you are lying. My memory is shot full of holes, so yeah, I could believe what you're saying, but I have to work until five. I live upstairs," he gestures to the area above the garage, "so come back then. By the way, this is a special, rare car, so take care of her ok?" Dean tosses me the keys.

He doesn't remember the Impala. He doesn't remember me.

But he's alive. That's all that matters.

* * *

The shaggy haired moose grins at me. I'm unnerved. I've dreamt of this guy, but it all ties in with those godawful nightmares and the feelings of fear that ride along with them.

"She's yours you know?" I turn, raise an eyebrow.

"What?" He gestures at the Impala.

"The car? It's yours. You're telling me to take care of your car. Don't believe me? Check the registration. It's in Dean Winchester's name. That's you buddy." I freeze, remembering how drawn I felt to the car when I first saw her yesterday. I remember thinking that whoever owned her treated her right. Treated her exactly how I would treat her.

Ok, I am about to freak here. I have no reason not to believe this guy. The fact that I have dreamt about him speaks volumes in and of itself. It just doesn't make sense. I've watched enough TV, and when an amnesiac is confronted with their real name and people who love them, they remember right?

I haven't remembered a damn thing. Sure, I felt drawn to the car, but damn, I do love me a classic lady. That's not so weird.

The weirdness is that I feel drawn to him…Sam. There is definitely something going on here. But I need to get back to work; I need to feel…I don't know, normal? This day is weirding me out all over the place.

"Come back around five." I repeat. "Bring beer and pizza." And proof, I want to add. I walk back to my bay trying to pretend everything is normal and my life didn't just flip upside down. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't turn around. There is some part of me that wants to run back to that Impala, jump in the driver's seat, turn on some Zepp, and 'Ramble On' my way out of here.

I'm freaked. But if I'm being honest, I'm also elated.

Maybe, just maybe, I am finally going to get some answers.

* * *

I find a cheap motel not far from Dean's shop. Bring beer and pizza, he said. I have to grin. That's my brother all over.

I am seriously on cloud nine here. Almost six months, I thought he might be dead, and here he is, with a nice little life cut out for himself in Pittsburg. I have a lot of unanswered questions, of course the biggest one being how the hell did he get out of that mine and end up here?

I keep replaying the moment he got out of the Impala and looked at me over the roof and smiled. How many times has he done that before? God, I missed him. It's hard to believe that he's back in my life. I smile when I think that I have the Impala to thank for it. Dean always swore she had a soul and a mind of her own.

Can't wait to call Bobby. He's gonna have to come all the way back out here again. For some reason this is hysterical to me, and I crack up, feeling truly happy for the first time in a long time.

I grab my laptop and look up highly rated pizza places. Dean is going to get one hell of a delicious pizza, and I am going to buy the expensive beer he likes but can't always afford, and a bottle of the best quality whiskey. He doesn't know it yet, but we are celebrating tonight.

Dean may not remember me; he may not remember our life, but hell, none of that matters to me at all.

My brother is _alive_.


	4. Pizza and Beer

Well, I sure wasn't expecting that call, but now I can't stop smiling. I'm packing a bag, getting ready to head back to Pittsburg. Grabbing a box out from under my bed, I grab the small photo album I have kept of my boys over the years. There aren't many pictures, but hopefully Dean will see something that jogs his memory.

Talking to Sam earlier, I was on the verge of tears. I haven't been this happy in a long time. And Sam, well I could hear the boy smiling. Dean doesn't remember him, but I'm sure, between the two of us, we can come up with something that will help him remember.

Sam says the starter went on the Impala, and the mechanic that fixed it was none other than the old girl's owner. Figures. That car has a mind of it's own.

We both need to figure out how much we are going to tell him right off the bat. Not sure if telling him about hunting is a good idea. Might scare him off.

I think the plan will be to take it slow, convince him to come back here with us, and work from there. Sam and I both have a lot of questions, the obvious one being how the hell did he end up in Pittsburg, but we have to help him remember first.

I hear a honk outside, the taxi is here, and I grab my stuff. As I lock up my front door, I feel a wave of joy and hope so strong it threatens to knock me over.

Damn, I'm getting soft.

* * *

I'm so excited, I think I'm vibrating. I'm such a dork, but damn, I am so friggin happy. I pull the Impala back into the shop's parking lot around five, a case of Sam Adams in the passenger foot well and a Mineo's pizza on the front seat. I also got a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Yup, I just spent $50 on whiskey. Dean's totally worth it.

Dean is in the bay at the far end of the shop. He's head and shoulders into some old car, I don't know what it is. It's white. I can say that much for it.

He must have heard the Impala pull up, and really, who could miss it? Straightening up, he turns to look at me, but doesn't smile. He raises his hand in a wave of acknowledgment, and ducks back down under the hood for a moment.

I watch him for a while, and I feel a bit like a stalker, except he knows I'm there. Dean stands, grabs a rag and wipes his hands. He lowers the garage door, and then shuts off the lights. I can see him making his way up the rest of the bays, stopping to talk to some of the guys still working.

He walks out one of the open doors, and I feel my heart quicken as he starts moving towards me. I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that my brother, my best friend, the guy I was sure was dead and gone, (well never completely sure) is alive. And he's walking across a parking lot to me like it's the most normal thing in the world.

His forearms are covered in grease, and he's unzipped his blue work coveralls, and has the shirt and sleeves part sort of tied around his waist. He has on the black tee I saw earlier. I smile when I realize that at some point during the day, he must have run a greasy hand through his hair, as there is a black streak amongst the dark blonde spikes.

As he gets closer, I see him examining the car, like he's looking for answers in the Impala's grill. He runs a reverent hand along the fender as he walks up to the window.

"Hey."

"Hey." I hand him the pizza.

"Ooh, Mineo's. Good stuff." I pull myself out of the car, and walk over to the passenger side, and open the door. I see his eyes widen as I pull the case of Sam Adams out, the whiskey tucked carefully into my backpack with my laptop.

"Damn, and Sam Adams? Guy could get used to this!"

"It's your favorite", I say without thinking.

"Yeah…" he replies quietly. I look up, and see a look I have seen a million times before on my brother's face. It's Dean's classic "I'm completely freaked and probably in over my head but I'll be damned if anyone knows it" face. I can read him like a book, hell I've been doing it all my life.

Slow, I think, I have to take this really slow. To him, I am a total stranger, but I happen to know everything about him. He's freaked out, and I can tell he is on edge and ready to run.

So slow it is. I can do this. I can totally do this.

* * *

Sasquatch (why the hell did I just call him that? Although he is a tall sonuvabitch) follows me up the stairs to my teensy apartment. I wonder what he will think of it. It's tiny, for sure. I have one room, and a bathroom, but it's home. I open the door and hold it open for him. Shoving some Super Chevys and Chilton manuals out of the way, I set the pizza on the coffee table.

"Gimme a minute and I'll get cleaned up. Make yourself at home." I grab a pair of boxers, clean shirt and jeans out of my dresser and head to the bathroom.

I start the water in the shower, and lean back against the door while I wait for it to heat up.

I am ridiculously uncomfortable. Sam means well, I think, and I have no reason to doubt him, but my life here has been decent. All day long, all I have been able to think about is the fact that my license is clearly a fake, and that I am afraid of cops, and I've been wondering. Am I some kind of criminal? Am I in a gang of some sort? Maybe that's what the tattoo is, a gang sign or something.

Also, how weird is it that he brings me my favorite beer? He clearly knows everything about me, but I know nothing about him, other than the fact he is insanely tall. I'm no slacker in the height department, but damn! That dude's a danger to aviation!

This makes me giggle like an idiot for some reason as I get in the shower. I have a mental image of a shaggy haired monster roaring as planes circle his head, and I am half bent over laughing. If he can hear me over the water, Sam probably thinks I've lost it. Maybe I have. Yesterday I had no clue who I was or where I came from, and today I have a family.

I finish my shower, get dressed, and pad out to the living area in bare feet. Sam's pulling the pizza out of the oven, and he's already got a couple of beers open on the table. He smiles at me.

"It got cold. Hope you don't mind."

"No, no problem." He sets the box down and hands me a beer. I take a long pull, and try not to let my nervousness show on my face. Sam's looking at me, intently, and honestly, that is not a comfortable feeling. I think he must be one of those guys who's always intense not matter what they are doing. "Thanks for dinner. And the beer."

"No problem man. Happy to do it for you." I sit on the end of the couch, and Sam sits next to me. He hands me a piece of pizza and I feel so damn self-conscious, I am not sure I am going to be able to do more than just sit here and stare at it, just like he is staring at me. I am squirming and I know it. I want to ask questions, but I don't know where to start. I'm hoping he'll say something, but he's still just staring at me like I'm gonna up and vanish on him.

"So..." I begin, not having any clue what I was going to say after that.

* * *

I stare at Dean, and he stares at his pizza. He's very uncomfortable. I wonder what he was laughing at in the bathroom.

"So…" he starts.

"Hey, man, eat up, we got all night to talk." He seems to relax a bit, and takes a hearty bite of the pizza. I dig in too, figuring if I eat, he'll eat. Wow. All the reviewers were right, this is a good pizza.

While I eat, I check out the apartment, if you want to call it that. It's pretty small. There's a kitchenette in one corner, with a small window over the sink, then the couch on the wall where we are sitting. Just to our right is a double bed under a bigger window, and the bathroom is directly across from us. There's no TV, just tons of books on cars and car repair. The place is rundown, but very clean.

I realize that's it really just a much cleaner version of some of the crap motels he and I have stayed in over the years. Dean eats another piece of pizza, and finishes his beer. I try not to stare, but I just can't help it.

He looks over at me, and I see something I can't quite identify in his eyes. It's not fear, not nervousness, something else. Wariness maybe. Insecurity? I can't figure it out.

"So how long have you been working here?" I ask tentatively.

"Um, about five or six months."

"And you don't remember anything before that?" He squirms.

"No, I've tried to, I just, you know, don't." Five or six months? He's been missing that long, so that means he ended up here immediately after the mine accident. How the hell can that be? I was hurt, surely he was too? Damn this is bringing up more questions that I know he isn't going to be able to answer. I try not to let the frustration show on my face.

"You want me to be able to remember more don't you?" he says quietly, and I look at him, and I see that flicker in his eyes. He's frustrated too.

"Yes, I do. I have questions that I hoped you'd be able to answer, but Dean, it's not your fault. It's really not. Don't feel bad."

"Is the Impala really mine?" I laugh.

"Oh yes, she's yours, you call her "Baby" and talk to her like she's a real person." He smiles.

"I called her Baby when I saw her yesterday. I thought she looked like she'd been loved, and taken care of the way I would take care of her. Where'd I get her from?" My face falls briefly and I hope he doesn't notice. I really didn't want to dive right into talking about Dad. I guess I don't really have a choice.

"She was our Dad's car, but you always loved her too. Dad gave you the keys when you turned eighteen."

"Where's Dad now?" The question rips right through me, and I don't want to answer. How am I supposed to explain this? Clearly I have to tell him that Dad's gone, but do I tell him why? Or give him some benign answer like "heart attack killed him"? If I tell him the truth, will it shock him back into remembering? Dammit. What the hell do I do?

"Dad's gone. He was…murdered."

"Oh." He looks shocked. "They get the guy who did it?"

"Um…no."

"Oh." And there it is. That weird look I couldn't get a handle on earlier. What is he thinking?

This is going to be harder than I thought.


	5. Past

"So what about our Mom? Is she still alive? Do we have any brothers or sisters? Any family left at all?" I sigh. Dean would go right for the hard questions.

"Mom died in a fire in our house when I was a baby. You were four. We don't have any other family out there that I know of. We do have a friend, Bobby, who's like a second dad to us. He's on his way here." Dean's face is back to being completely shuttered. If he is feeling anything, he's keeping it from me.

"What do you do? You know, what's your job?" _Oh you know, drive around the country and kill monsters for no pay and run from the law. _

"I do research. Examine old texts and their meanings." So partial truth it is_._

"What did I do before?" _You Dean? Monster ganker extraordinaire? Dammit. _

"Um, well you were kinda…you kinda were…like a mechanic…but sorta…I dunno…"

"Unemployed? Deadbeat? Mooching off lil bro?"

"Not quite."

"Sam…am I like a…a criminal?"

"What?"

"Ok this is going to sound weird, but I have this fear, like of cops, and when I first got here, my boss said I should go and get my fingerprints done, that maybe they would be able to help me figure out who I am. I got to the station, I stood on the steps and I couldn't go in."

Crap. This is going to be interesting. To the world, Dean _is _a criminal. He's wanted for murder, which he didn't commit. It was a damn shape-shifter. But how do I explain that to him? If I go straight for the Family Business, he's gonna think I am some kinda nut, and probably show me the door.

There's a knock at the door. Saved by the bell, Bobby's here!

* * *

I can't help it. I grab my boy and wrap him in a bear hug. He seems surprised but responds, and hugs me back. I put my hands on his shoulders, and hold him so I can look at his face. Dean's uncomfortable with the affection, and the look on his face shows it. Reluctantly, I let him go, and he takes a step back. There's a wary smile on his face, and he grabs a beer and offers it to me. I take it gladly, finally noticing Sam, who's standing in the background grinning like an idiot. If that boy grins any wider, he's going to split his face.

"Um, would you like some pizza?" Dean gestures to the pie sitting on his coffee table, shoved in amidst car magazines and repair manuals. The tiny apartment is very clean, but pretty rundown.

"Actually, I'm good, happy with the beer. So how you been boy? We sure have missed you." Dean grabs the empty beer bottles off the table, and motions for me to sit.

"Fine, I guess." Dean is very uncomfortable, and I watch as he carries the empties over to a can near his kitchen. Sam meets eyes with me, and shakes his head almost unperceptively, and I take this to mean he hasn't made much progress.

"I brought some things with me, some pictures and stuff, hopefully it will help to jog your memory." Dean is still in the kitchen, staring out the tiny window now. I wish he'd turn around. I can't read him from the back like this, and I just have a feeling something is wrong. I look at Sam again, and he's got that face. The one Dean calls "bitch face". Something is definitely wrong. I wonder if I should ask Sam to step outside so I can ask him.

Dean's whole stance is that of a skittish animal. He looks like it's taking everything he has not to bolt out his own front door. My cell buzzes in my pocket. I have one new text.

_He doesn't remember anything and he asked me if he was a criminal. I got nothing._

_Did u bring up hunting? _

I hit send, and watch Sam's face as he reads the message. He shakes his head. I sigh.

"Dean? Do you have any questions we can answer for you?" He doesn't answer, just keeps staring out the window. When he does open his mouth, his words are so quiet, I almost miss them.

"Who am I?"

"Well you're Dean Winchester. Your birthday is January 24, 1979, you're the son of John and Mary Winchester, brother of Sam Winchester, you drive a 1967 Chevrolet Impala that you call Baby, you love Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Metallica, and classic rock in general, and I don't believe you've ever met a car you couldn't fix. And you and Sam are the closest things I have to kids of my own. You're practically my son and I love ya."

"Ok. That's great and all, but WHO am I?" He turns, and his eyes are wet. "What did I do before? And don't sell me this bullshit about being a mechanic!" He yanks down the collar of his shirt, revealing his tattoo. "What the hell does this thing mean? Is it a gang sign or something? I asked you before Sam, am I a criminal? Who killed Dad? Was Mom murdered too? Stop fooling around and give me real answers dammit! I can tell when you're lying, Sam! I don't know how, I just can!" He's furious, and Sam's eyes are wide.

Shit.

This got out of hand mighty quick.

* * *

I hate when people lie to me. Like when a customer tells me they have no idea why the engine started making that noise, they weren't pushing the car too hard. Or sure, they get the oil changed all the time, no way it could be dry, I must've done something wrong.

I'm not stupid you know. I may not be the most intelligent guy in the world, but I know stuff.

Sam's lying. Or he isn't telling me the whole truth. They don't know what I know.

I had a lot of time with that Impala they keep saying is mine. Found some stuff in the trunk. Some really out-there stuff. Weapons of all sorts. Guns. Knives. An ass-ton of rock salt. Just really odd, weird stuff.

And if they say the car is mine, then that means all that crap is mine. Which brings me back to the whole 'am I a criminal' mess, because seriously? The shit in that car makes me think psycho occultist killer. Also, the marks and scars on my body? I look friggin' evil.

So why is he lying? Is he trying to protect me? Or keep me here until the authorities can be notified? Shit, I really am freaked. And I think it's showing.

The older one, Bobby, is studying me so closely, I want to squirm under his scrutiny. Sam looks like he's about to blow his brain cells trying to come up with an explanation.

"Just tell me the truth guys. Please." I hate that it comes out sounding like I'm begging. I'm not weak. Right?

"Dean, there's a lot of stuff that might be hard for you to hear…" Bobby begins, but I cut him off.

"Look. I saw all the weirdness in the trunk of the car ok?" Sam jaw drops, his face goes completely bloodless.

Damn. That's it. I'm a psycho occultist killer. Fuck my luck.

"You saw everything?" Sam's freaked, I can tell. Probably thinks he's my next victim.

"Yup. So if it's my car, that means all that stuff is mine, which means…I'm some kind of killer huh?"

"Wait, what?"

"I'm a killer right? That's what you were trying to not tell me?" I'm heartbroken, even though I can't remember anything about my life with Sam, I don't _feel_ like a killer.

"Dean…you're not a killer, I mean you kill things, but not people! I swear. Shit, Bobby, we have to tell him now."

"Tell me what?!"

"You're not a killer boy. Quite the opposite actually.

You're a hunter."

* * *

The expression on Dean's face is so damn funny and adorable I want to laugh. He's completely bewildered by Bobby's words, having already resigned himself to being a killer. If he wasn't so serious about this, I'd be on the floor laughing by now.

I wish I had been here when he opened the trunk. I can just imagine his face!

"What? I don't understand? A hunter? Like deer and shit? What does that even mean?" I can't help it, I burst out laughing, still amused that Dean thought he was some nutty Dexter type, and now he thinks he's a professional deer hunter. Oh god, this is just too funny!

Bobby doesn't think so, and shoots me a death stare so strong I instantly stop laughing.

"What the hell is so funny? You guys are seriously starting to piss me off!"

"Don't pay any attention to him. Now look boy, the stuff I am about to tell you is gonna sound mighty unbelievable, but it's just how it is. Why don't you sit down, and let's talk about this." Dean glares at me, still clearly peeved that I laughed at him, and I try for an apologetic smile which apparently does not convince him, because he's still glaring as he sits in the recliner across from the couch.

"You've heard of things like vampires, ghosts, werewolves, demons, and the like right?"

"Umm, yeah, none of that stuff exists." Bobby raises an eyebrow, and tosses a book on the table. I recognize it right away as his own journal.

"Sorry to tell you boy, but they do exist, and that's what you hunt. That's what we all hunt. And your tattoo? It's to keep you from being possessed by a demon. It's a protective sigil." We both watch Dean's face. He looks shocked at first, then disbelieving. Then his expression changes into that unreadable one I was getting earlier.

I think he's freaked, but I'm not sure. This is a whole new level of poker face, even for him. He grabs Bobby's journal, and leafs through the pages, his face remaining completely and carefully blank.

"Say something. Dean? You ok?" He looks at me, and I can finally read him. It's his eyes, they give him away every time. At least to me they do.

There's fear there. And relief. Confusion. Hurt. Too many emotions for me to nail down completely. But there's also trust. And it stands out above everything else.

He believes us.


	6. Hunt

_No, your eyes do not deceive you! It's a fresh new chapter for Lost and Found! Yay me! Huge thanks to WifeyMcWiferson for all her encouragement. Love and demons bombs kiddies!_

* * *

It's been a coupla days since Sam and me dropped all that stuff about being hunters in Dean's lap. He's handled it pretty well for the most part. That first night, we just stayed at his place, and talked all night, answering every question he had. Dean took it all in, looked at us like we were crazy a few times, but didn't say much, other than ask his questions.

He and Sam spent the next day together, while I went and slept in Sam's motel room. From what I understand, they mostly crashed and slept.

Dean's on leave from his job right now, met his boss, nice old fart like me, goes by the name of Reggie. I can see why Dean would have ended up working here with him, the dude reminds me a lot of myself. Subconsciously, he must've reminded Dean of me as well.

Been looking for a simple hunt to try and ease the boy back in, try and jog his memory. Found what looks like a simple salt and burn, not too far from Pittsburg, up the road a few hours in Erie, Pennsylvania.

Sam's of the opinion that we need to get Dean back on the horse, so to speak, toss him in feet first. Not sure I completely agree, but there's no arguing with Sam when he gets a bug up his ass.

I'm sitting here, alone in Dean's apartment, while the boys go out and grab some grub for breakfast. Sam's pretty much all smiles these days, just happy to have his brother back, but Dean still seems very reserved.

It's not that he's scared of Sam, quite the opposite, as that natural connection seems to still be there, and they've been pretty inseparable since the other night. If I had to put a finger on it, Dean's concerned that hunting may not be his life anymore, and he knows it, but doesn't want to dampen Sam's enthusiasm.

Even when he barely remembers his brother, Sam's wellbeing is always Dean's first priority.

Some things never change.

* * *

I hand Dean a cup of coffee, black like always, and he smiles slightly, just a tip of his lips.

He's tired, there are shadows under his eyes, and I wonder if he slept at all last night. Dean seems unwilling to let me out of his sight, and decided I was too tall for the couch, and made me take the bed in his apartment.

Pretty sure he had a nightmare around two, I heard him up and moving around, but ass that I am, I stayed in bed. I hate that we are still kind of tense with each other. Dean doesn't know any different right now, and I am still afraid to push him too far. I don't want to push him away before we ever really get a chance to know each other again.

Bobby found a salt and burn up north somewhere, and I am pretty determined we are gonna get Dean back out there, show him what we do. I hope it will shake something lose in that brain of his, maybe help him get his memory back.

Funny, I still hate that this is our lives as much as I ever did, but I can't come up with another way to get him back. The car didn't work, Bobby's journal and pictures didn't work, talking hasn't…

I just remembered. I have his amulet! I should give it back to him, maybe that would trigger something. I can feel the weight of it under my shirt, where it's been laying since we found it in the mine.

We're sitting in a donut shop near Dean's place, and I can tell he frequents this place, as many people have stopped to say hello, including some old dude that can't stop talking about how Dean fixed his old Caddy when everyone was telling him to give it up. He's totally enamored with my brother, makes it a point to tell me how all these other mechanics wanted thousands to do what Dean called a simple job, and did it for a couple hundred bucks.

Dean's blushing, and if I had to guess, this old guy, who's about ninety, tugged my big brother's heartstrings and Dean probably did the job on his own time to save the guy some coin. Dean acts all badass but truth is, he's a big old softie.

He also knows what it feels like to love a car like a family member.

It's funny, the more time I spend with him, the more I see the Dean I know and love.

All we have to do now is make him remember.

* * *

Somehow I ended up behind the wheel of this traveling circus.

But hey, I am driving this gorgeous Impala, so it can't be all bad, right?

Really wish Sam would stop watching everything I do. I just popped in Zeppelin 2, and I swear his eyes filled with tears. Don't know what the hell that's supposed to be about, or why both him and Bobby seem to be so damn pleased that my off-key ass knows all the words to "Ramble On".

Who doesn't? Seriously, isn't that song like a national treasure or something?

We're heading up the road to Erie, just passed Sharon, and I am damn sick of sitting in this car already. If I was alone, I could drive this baby all day, and not give a shit, but this friggin' fishbowl effect these two morons are giving me is driving me insane. I hate being watched like this.

It's like they think if they keep looking, my brain will just slip into gear and remember all the shit I supposedly forgot.

So we're going on a ghost hunt. Seriously can't believe this shit is real, but I am gonna give them the benefit of the doubt. Bobby says we have to find out who the ghost is, when they died and then, get this shit, _dig up the body_, cover it with salt and gas, and light the fucker.

I think they are both nuts.

We get to Erie around noon, and thank fuckin' god, because I can't stay in the car with these two anymore.

I swear, they came up with every stupid story they could think of on the drive up here. Stories about me and Sam causing trouble in Bobby's salvage yard, hunts gone comically wrong, stories about people I used to know. I can't help read behind the lines though, and I know for every "funny" story, there are even more tragic tales, deaths they, _we_, couldn't prevent, and I have to wonder again what the hell is so great about this life that Sam's so fucking determined to drag me back into it.

It's not Sam. I like Sam, a lot, and I have no trouble believing we are brothers. Even the swiss cheese that's left of my brain can feel the connection, like the two of us would find each other no matter where we ended up.

It's not Bobby. I genuinely like Bobby, he really feels like a dad to me.

It's the job. This hunting thing. It's bullshit, it's taken my parents away, and it's apparently why I can't remember anything beyond the last six months of my life.

Really, who'd want this life?

'Cause I am pretty sure I don't.

* * *

"SONUVABITCH!"

Dean swings his shotgun around and takes aim and fires at the damn ghost, who's got Sam pinned to the ground and is hurling all the rocks and other debris that it can find in my direction, all while I am trying to light the damn grave.

His face is white, and he's terrified, but he's also snapped right back into Dean Winchester mode, protecting Sam, and fighting this thing like he never stopped.

Our angry ghost friend was not impressed by the shotgun shell full of salt, and rematerializes almost immediately, having realized that Dean's the threat, and picks the kid up off his feet and tosses him into the nearest tree.

Sam's recovered by this point and puts another salt round through the spirit's ass while I finally manage to get the grave lit.

Rematerializing yet again, right in front of Dean, I watch helplessly as Dean grabs his shotgun, spins it around, and makes like a baseball bat with it.

The iron barrel cuts through the ghost, who's already started burning, and it screams as it dissipates.

The three of us sit there for a moment, breathing hard, trying our best to get our bearings.

Dean's still sitting against the tree, his face still pale, although there's a hint of green now too, and he looks like he's about to lose his dinner. Sam's watching him carefully, concern all over his face.

"Dean?" He raises his hand and shuts his eyes, clearly indicating he's not ready to talk.

"I'm sorry, boys," I explain lamely, "it looked like a simple job. I didn't know…" I trail off, worried by the burgeoning signs of some serious Winchester temper flaring on Dean's face. Shit.

"It's ok, Bobby, we handled it, right, Dean?" I want to tell Sam to shut the hell up, you think he'd be better at reading his brother by now. Dean's about ten seconds from blast off, I can see it. He ain't happy.

"Yeah. We handled it," Dean says shortly. He pulls himself to his feet, grabs a shovel, and starts tossing dirt back into the grave, shovelful by angry shovelful.

Sam and I help him, and a few minutes later, we're loading the Impala up, and Dean still ain't talking.

I get the feeling we've done more harm than good here.

Hope to hell I'm wrong.

* * *

The ride back to Pittsburg in the morning is painful.

Dean's barely said two words to me or Bobby since the hunt ended yesterday.

Yeah, it didn't go right, I get that, but that's the job, you just never know. I just didn't expect him to be so…_furious_.

He's driving, but there's no music, no random chatter. I can feel his anger coming off him in waves. Clearly, this was not a good idea, which is what Bobby was trying to tell me, but I pushed on anyway, so damn sure this was the right idea.

But he's so mad at us.

We get back to his place around eleven, and he tosses me the Impala's keys, claims he's tired, and stalks off to the garage, disappearing inside where the steps to his apartment are. I see his boss look out at me and Bobby, questions on his face, but I can't worry about that now.

"He's not shutting me out," I growl, and leave a protesting Bobby behind as I storm across the parking lot, into the shop, and up the stairs to Dean's place.

I try the knob, surprised it isn't locked, and barge in like I own the place, and Dean jumps up from his spot on the couch.

"Get out!" he yells, and shoves me across the floor.

"NO! We need to talk!"

"There's nothing to talk about! You almost got me killed!"

"I was trying to help you remember! I thought the job might trigger something!" We're both screaming at each other, but neither one of us seems to care.

"All it proved was you two are insane! I can't believe I was ever a part of this shit!" He shoves me again, and I can see how the anger has darkened his eyes. He's furious in a way I haven't seen in a long time. Surprisingly, it seems to disarm me a little, and I back up a bit, try to give him some space. When I open my mouth again, I am much calmer, and I chose my words carefully.

"Look, that job wasn't supposed to go like that. And I'm sorry. I mean it, Dean." He turns away from me, and his head droops. I feel like shit. He's right, I shouldn't have pushed him.

"It won't happen again, Dean, I promise. I'll make sure you're much better prepared next time…" Dean spins, fury lighting his face again.

"Next time? There won't be a next time, Sam! I am done with this shit!"

"Dean…"

"No, I mean it. You and Bobby. You take that car, and you go! I am not doing this. I have a life here, it's simple, but it's good. I like you Sam, you're a great guy, but I don't want this life. I don't want any part of it. So just go. I mean it. Go."

"Dean…" My words falter. I'm on the verge of crying. I just got him back and he's pushing me away.

"Go." I know he means it, so what else can I do?

I leave, even though every piece of me wants to turn around, talk to him, _make_ him see reason.

It's like leaving that mine all over again.

I never even got to give him the amulet.


	7. Brothers

Three weeks later-

I'm up to my elbows in a '68 Mustang.

Really would like to know what this guy thought he was doing. It's a good solid car, but he's managed to fuck this engine up so bad, I'm about ready to call it a day and tell the dude to just get a new motor. I don't get why people think they can skip routine maintenance. I can tell by the oil filter that it's been a long time since the last change.

This is one of those douchenozzles who thinks they can just keep adding oil and everything will be fine.

Yeah, and that's why there's metal shavings in the little oil I just drained off this poor girl.

It's after six now, I'm beat, and I grab a rag to wipe my hands. Gonna head up for a shower, go grab some beers.

I'm the last one here, so I lock everything up. On my way up the stairs, I stop and smile out at the lot, where my gorgeous Impala is sitting.

Yup, Sam and Bobby friggin' made me keep her, and gotta tell you, I didn't fight them too hard on that. I did make them take all the weapons out, although they made me keep a Colt 1911 that they claim is my favorite, a silver blade, and a jug of _holy water_.

I am also required to make sure the salt lines in my place stay intact, and there's a "devil's trap" painted just inside my door, where's it covered with a rug.

Apparently, these are things we do when we want to be safe.

I sigh as I get undressed, and think about Sam, who I miss a lot more than I thought I would.

I know he didn't understand, I know he was upset, so I am grateful he walked away, but still…I don't know, sometimes I wish he wouldn't have.

I miss him.

He's my brother after all.

* * *

I load my bin up, and move to the next table to clear it as well.

Sam Winchester, busboy extraordinaire.

But, you gotta do what you gotta do, and if I intend on staying here, I needed a steady income, and that meant a job.

So I work most nights at this stupid little dive bar around the corner from Dean's shop. It's full of loud morons who harass the waitresses, which is why I think they really hired me. I bus tables sure, but my size is a pretty helpful deterrent when it comes to some drunk slob trying to grab one of the girls.

I love the girls, they're all so sweet, and none of them deserve the shake they got in life. Claire's interested in me, and she's great, in another time and place, I'd probably take her up on the invitation to come back to her place for coffee, but my focus has to be on Dean, and keeping him safe.

I'm renting a small place across from the shop, and so far, I'm pretty sure Dean hasn't noticed I'm there. Sometimes I sit in my window at night with the lights off, and watch him through his windows. He moves around his apartment, reads a book, folds laundry, does whatever and I sit over here and watch him.

Yes, I am painfully aware that I'm a creepy stalker, but Dean's practically defenseless. I have no way of knowing whether or not he's keeping the salt lines intact, or if the trap is still on the floor, so someone has to keep an eye out.

That someone is me.

Tonight, he's drinking a beer and setting up a new TV. He's smiling, and his mouth is moving, guess he's singing along to whatever he's listening to.

Wish I was over there with him.

I have no trouble walking away from hunting. My job is to protect Dean now. Maybe I'm nuts, but I just have a feeling like he's not safe here. Like it's only a matter of time until a demon or something realizes he's here.

I miss him.

I hate the way things ended. I still feel like I should have done more, should have said more.

The amulet hangs cool and heavy against my chest. I should have given it to him. It probably wouldn't have made a difference.

I feel like I'm going to spend the rest of my life on the outside of Dean's world, looking in.

I hate this.

* * *

Another day, another car.

Today's patient is Mr. Kerns' '78 Caddy. The same one he made a point of telling Sam all about. Nothing major, just the routine maintenance. Mr. Kerns thinks I'm God's gift to auto repair.

I love getting lost in work. It's nice to be able to forget about the rest of the world while I am working on a car.

And I have a lot on my mind.

Reggie's been acting weird. I'm wondering if something's going on at home with his wife. He's been grumpy as hell the last couple of days, snapping at me, the other guys, even the customers. Not like him at all.

Then there's Sam.

I think he's moved in across the street. I swear I saw him last night, and when I was setting up my TV, it felt like I was being watched. If he's in the apartment I think he's in, his windows face mine across the street.

So, my boss has lost it, and my brother's stalking me.

Interesting life I lead huh?

I finish Mr. Kerns' car, and move it out to the lot for him to pick up. Friggin' starving, think I'll head upstairs for a bit and grab some lunch.

Sliding the paperwork for the Caddy onto the desk, I lean over to hang the keys on the designated hook.

Reggie is staring blankly at the computer.

"You ok, boss?"

He raises his head, and I blink. I swear for a second there, I thought his eyes were completely black. Weird.

"I'm fine. What are you doing?" Reggie's voice is a little on the harsh side, and I'm kinda surprised.

"Dude, was just gonna get some lunch," I say calmly, "unless you have something else you need me to do."

Reggie grunts, but doesn't say anything else, just turns and heads back into the office.

I head up the stairs to my place, a little concerned now. This isn't like him.

In the past several months, he's been like a dad to me, he's never been short or nasty like he has been the past couple of days.

Grabbing some stuff to make myself a sandwich, I turn and happen to glance out my front window, where for the first time, I can clearly see Sam, grocery bags and six pack in his hands.

Ok, that's it.

* * *

I'm fumbling for my keys, trying to shift the beer and groceries and not drop anything, when something hard slams into me and everything goes flying anyway.

There's a crash, and then the smell of beer, and I'm staring into furious green eyes, as Dean shoves me up against the wall next to my door.

"What the actual fuck, Sam?"

He's pissed, and that's the understatement of the year.

"Um. Hey, just…you know…" I trail off.

"Oh, yeah, bringing home groceries to the apartment you've been in for at least two weeks? Dude, you're not very good at the incognito." I laugh at this.

"It's not that I'm not good, it's that you're one of the best trackers I've ever met." Dean's shoulders slump, and he looks annoyed as hell.

"Bullshit. Don't start on that hunting crap again." He leans over and starts scooping my stuff back into the bags. "Dude, yogurt, lettuce, bananas, you ever eat any real food?"

This makes me laugh hysterically, which only earns a death stare from my brother.

"What?"

"Nothing, just you are always picking on me, whenever we go anywhere, and you get some grease-soaked burger and I order a salad. Just felt like old times is all." Dean actually smiles at this, and I feel a little bubble of optimism rise in my chest.

"So what's the Stalky McCreeperson act?" I sigh, and unlock the door, reaching for the stairwell light.

"I just wanted to make sure you were safe, and I didn't like how things ended after the salt and burn went bad."

"Can take of myself, Sam," he huffs as he hauls two of my grocery bags up the stairs behind me. I let him into the room, and I'm grateful that I just cleaned up this morning. My place is even smaller than Dean's, and I wish my bed was half as big.

I'm embarrassed that the single chair in the place is still sitting in front of the window, but if he notices, he doesn't say a thing. Dean sets the bags on the counter next to the fridge, and quietly surveys the room.

"I have to get back," he says suddenly, "I'm still on the clock." Dean heads for the door.

"We should get a beer," I blurt out awkwardly, "you know, when you're done for the night? Just hang out. I won't push the hunting thing again, I promise." He pauses in the doorway, hand on the knob, and I wait, holding my breath, thinking _please say yes_.

"Yeah, ok. Come over around sixish." Without waiting for response, he pulls the door shut and I can hear the steps creak as he makes his way down. I stand in the middle of the room, watching him cross the street, and head back into the garage.

There's a warm feeling settling in my chest, and I like it.

Feels like…hope.

* * *

Reggie's still not at the counter when I get back.

I'm feeling pretty good at the moment. Seeing Sam was awesome, and if I'm going to be honest with myself, I missed him more than I cared to admit.

My stomach growls, and I remember that I'd been in the midst of lunch when I saw Sam, so I head upstairs to finish making myself a sandwich.

A little while later, I am cleaning up my lunch mess, and getting ready to head back downstairs. Hopefully Reggie's chilled out, and has some work for me.

I make a decision that I am gonna try and talk to him, figure out what's going on with him. He's always been there for me, so it's about time I returned the favor. If something's going on with his wife, maybe he just needs a shoulder to cry on.

Not that us manly guys ever cry or nothing.

I get back downstairs, and I'm kinda surprised at the quiet. I waltz out into the bays, and my heart stops.

There's blood everywhere.

Everyone's dead. I can see what's left of their bodies, they've been torn to pieces. My friends are dead. All of them.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

I'm breathing hard, panicking.

I back up, and crash into something warm and solid. Turning around, I come face to face with Reggie, and it's not a trick of the light anymore.

His eyes are solid black.


	8. Demon

"Winchester," Reggie growls, and I feel my blood turn to ice.

Holy shit. He's a demon. I read about them in Bobby's journal, and Sam told me stuff. I need holy water. All that crap is upstairs.

Holy shit. Holy shit. They were right and I didn't listen.

I'm going to die. I'm going to fucking die.

I stumble back from Reggie, more afraid than I can ever remember being. My boot slips on the blood-slick surface of the garage floor, and I overcompensate and lose my balance, ending up on my ass.

Reggie looms closer, an evil grin on his face.

"The mighty Dean Winchester, flat on his ass, cowering in fear. This is almost too sweet. If only old Yellow Eyes was here."

Reggie reaches down and grabs the front of my shirt, and yanks me to my feet. He pulls me in close, and there's a weird smell around him, sulfur? God, he stinks!

"Dean, Dean, Dean, what am I gonna do with you?"

"Stop breathing on me maybe? Dude, your breath stinks like ass." Sassy probably wasn't the best course of action, I tell myself, as one of Reggie's meaty fists attempts to take my jaw off.

I stagger backwards, dizzy from the punch, and the next thing I know, I am flying backwards and landing on one of the work benches.

What the fuck? He didn't even touch me!

I scrabble around on the bench, trying to find something to use as a weapon. My fingers find a tire iron.

Iron! Sam mentioned that once, maybe it'll help. Quickly sliding off the bench, I charge Reggie, but I don't make it, I'm flying again, and my head connects with the concrete block wall.

You know, I didn't realize the cartoons were serious when the characters saw stars.

I lose time, next thing I am really aware of is Reggie standing over me, a hammer in his hand. It hits me then.

I'm really going to die.

…

Dean destroyed my tomato.

I sigh as I drop the miserable thing in the trash. So much for that salad. I grab a yogurt instead as I'm not all that hungry, and plop in the chair by the window.

I'm pretty psyched that Dean figured out I was here, and doesn't seem annoyed anymore. He seems like he's pretty happy to have me here. Maybe we could go somewhere this weekend. Maybe catch a Pirates game or something.

That would be cool, I'm definitely going to suggest that later.

My eyes travel across the street, and I'm looking at the garage, and something makes the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

That's weird, all the big doors are closed. It's the middle of the day, why would they…

Oh my god.

Even from here, I can see the blood smeared on the windows.

I jump up out of the chair, accidentally drop the yogurt, but fuck the yogurt, I reach under the bed for my duffel, and yank out a Beretta, salt, and a monster jug of holy water.

I don't know if it's a demon over there, although it seems the most likely, but at any rate, I'm not taking any chances, so I grab a silver knife, and a sawed-off preloaded with salt rounds.

I don't even stop to think, just haul ass down the stairs and across the street, and barge in through the front door. The front office is quiet, empty, and my guard goes up, and I move quickly through the displays of tires, keeping my feet as quiet as possible. There's a muffled grunt, then a heavy thud, and my heart pounds against my chest as I hear my brother cry out in pain.

That's a sound I have heard way too often in my life.

Carefully easing around the front of the desk, I slip quietly against the wall, and move silently towards the door leading into the work bays.

…

I stare up at Reggie, or what used to be him, and he grins down at me, and it's the most horrible expression I've ever seen on that man's face.

I'm hurting. He hasn't used the hammer on me, but he's sure had fun flinging me around with his weird telekinesis shit.

God, I wish I'd have listened to Sam and Bobby. If I'd just gone back with them, none of this would be happening. All these people this thing killed, Reggie, their blood is on my hands. I as good as killed them myself.

I'm on my knees, and I'm dizzy, and my vision's starting to blur around the edges. I don't think I can take too many more hits.

There's movement in the doorway behind Reggie, and I catch Sam's eyes for a moment, and I know he's here to help. Gotta provide a diversion.

"Hey ugly," I gasp, "that the best you got? 'Cause I feel fine, bitch. You hit like a girl. C'mon, give me your best shot this time!"

Yeah, maybe I went a little too far, and I'm flying again, and the back of my head connects with something heavy and solid and the last thing I see is Reggie screaming as Sam upends a jug of water over his head.

I slump to the ground, and everything goes black.

…

The demon in Reggie screams loud enough to crack glass as I dump the jug of holy water on him.

Dean's on the ground, he's not moving, his eyes are closed, and there's a growing puddle of blood under his head.

Shit.

I start chanting the exorcism, keeping the demon at bay as best as possible, using salt and holy water, and he's screaming and fighting me, but I manage to get through the entire thing.

Black smoke screams out of Reggie's mouth, and then the man's body slumps to the floor. I look closer, check for a pulse, but he's gone, probably had a heart attack.

I stand, and move over to Dean. He's still not moving, but his pulse is strong. The back of his head is bleeding, but head wounds are notorious bleeders, so I'm not worried about the blood loss, and the flow has already started to slow.

There's one hell of a lump on the back of his head, so he's probably got a concussion.

Dean's going to be ok in the long run, so I take a minute to look around the garage.

Fuck.

The demon tore all of Dean's coworkers apart. There's blood and body parts everywhere, and it occurs to me suddenly, _I have to get him out of here._

Leaning down, I scoop Dean up in my arms and carry him back out to the main office, and lay him across the desk. I run over and lock the front door and put the "Closed" sign in the window, and pull all the blinds closed. I don't have much time, I need to hurry.

Rushing upstairs, I grab the first bag I find and upend all of his dresser drawers into it. I grab all his toiletries, his sneakers, anything personal.

I leave all the books and TV behind, and don't bother to lock the door, snagging the Impala's key off the hook on the way out.

Back downstairs, I run out to the Impala, and toss all his stuff in the trunk, then go grab Dean, and settle him in the back seat. Firing up the car, I drive to the back of my place, park in the alley, then run upstairs and strip the place of my stuff, leaving the key and the rest of the rent, in cash, on the counter. I don't even take the food.

I do steal a pillow and blanket for Dean, and throw an extra $20 on the counter.

Then I get in the Impala, and get the hell out of Dodge, and not a moment too soon, because I can hear sirens heading this way.

Pointing the car west, I put the pedal to the floor and head for Bobby's.

…

My head hurts.

Am I on a boat? What the hell?

Why won't the world stay still?

God, I'm going to vomit.

Sam?

What's going on?

I don't understand.

What's…ugh.

Sleep. Going to sleep.

…

I drive the rest of the day, finally stopping somewhere near Indianapolis.

I find us a motel, pay cash, and get Dean settled in bed.

I'm exhausted.

A quick shower, and some delivered take-out, and I'm ready for bed. So of course, that's when Dean wakes up, freaked out, and I barely get him to the bathroom before he throws up.

I run a washcloth under cold water and wring it out. Dean's leaning up against the bathroom wall, his face white, and he looks like he might hurl again.

Sitting down across from him, I gently run the cloth over his face, then do my best to rinse the blood off his neck.

He's shaking.

"Dean? You ok?"

"No."

"Want a shower? I brought all your stuff." He startles a bit, and looks around, green eyes wide and fearful.

"Where are we?"

"Just west of Indianapolis. I'm taking you to Bobby's."

"Sam…they were all…that thing…he…my fault."

"Your fault?! Dean, none of that was your fault!" He looks up at me, and I can see tears welling in his eyes. "It's not your fault, Dean, I swear it."

I don't know if he accepts what I am saying or not, his face darkens, and he closes his eyes.

"My head hurts. I just want to go back to bed, I just want to sleep."

I sigh, but help him get to his feet. I can't believe he actually thinks this is his fault. Dean crawls under the covers, and I make sure he has everything he needs, then crawl back into bed myself.

It only takes about twenty minutes for me to pass out, falling asleep to the comforting sound of my brother's soft breathing.

I don't know how long I am out, but I'm suddenly forced awake.

The room's dark, but someone's in pain, or terrified, I'm not sure.

It's Dean.

Dean's screaming.


	9. Burning

Where am I?

A house…I don't recognize it. I feel drawn to a room down the hall. There's a scratching sound behind me, and I turn quickly, did I see something? A shadow, maybe…

I keep moving forward, drawn to the open door with the soft glow of a nightlight limning the edges of the frame.

It feels like I'm moving through water, I swear my feet are sticking to the carpet.

There's a scream, and I try to run to the room, as fast as I can, but the closer I get, the further the room is from me.

Someone runs past me, a man, slams open the door, as I'm finally getting closer. I blink, and I'm suddenly in the room. I'm staring at the man as he leans over a baby crib, whispering to the child inside.

He looks up suddenly, and screams. I look up too.

There's a woman there, flat against the ceiling, blonde hair fanned around her head, mouth open in a silent scream, her belly painted red with blood.

What the fuck?

She bursts into flames, and the man scoops up the baby and runs for the door.

The flames are spreading, and I want to run, but I can't.

Oh god, I'm burning. I'm on fire.

Oh god, someone help me!

Please!

Help me!

* * *

Dean's screaming, tears streaming down his face, and he won't wake.

I shake him and shake him, calling his name, and he finally comes around, gasping, eyes wide and terrified, grabbing on to me and holding on as tight as he can. He's sobbing now, whispering about being on fire, and I wrap my arms around his back and rub my hands in circles, telling to him to calm down, but he's shaking like a leaf.

"She was burning…and then I was burning…and I couldn't…so scared, Sammy…" I freeze. He called me "Sammy". That's a first.

"Who was burning, Dean? What happened?"

"Blonde lady," he gasps between sobs. "On the ceiling…then the fire…the man saved the baby, but the lady…and me…we burned."

Holy hell.

He dreamt about Mom.

No wonder he's freaking out.

"It's ok, Dean, it was just a dream." I'm rocking my brother like a child, and I can't help but think how wrong this is all is.

"Sam, I could feel it…I could feel my skin bubbling, the heat, why did I dream this? I don't understand!" he wails, and I feel tears sting my eyes too. This is so not a Dean reaction to a nightmare. I guess between the unfamiliarity of it all, and the concussion he undoubtedly has, not to mention everything that happened at the garage, he's a wreck, can't hold it together at all.

I don't know how to calm him down, and the only thing I can think is that he's going to have to cry this out.

He's going to want to know more, and I am going to have to tell him, but tonight, I am just going to do my best to comfort him, and get him back to sleep.

Suddenly, he shoves me away and runs for the bathroom, tripping, and going down on one knee, he barely makes it to the trashcan near the door, before he's sick, retching hard into the bin. I get up, and go over to him, kneel beside him, and just rest my hand on his back.

"It's ok, Dean," I whisper, "I'm here." I keep rubbing his back through the dry heaves. He's quiet now, still shaking a bit, and when he's done, I help get him back into bed.

He looks up at me with tired eyes.

"Please don't leave me, Sam." Dean says it so quietly, I almost miss it. I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile, and sit on the bed next to him. I can sit here until he falls asleep. That should help.

"Don't worry, Dean, I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the stabbing pain right behind my eyes.

Second thing I notice is I am sweating buckets. I roll to my side, surprised to find Sam there, passed out cold, mouth slightly open. He's snoring softly, and I realize he must have stayed in bed with me after that fucking nightmare.

Damn, I really fell apart last night. I wonder who she was. Do I know her? And the fire…

I shudder, and roll back the other way, sit up slowly, and put my feet on the ground. I need to go to the bathroom.

Taking a deep breath, I pull myself to my feet, and half stagger into the bathroom. I do what I need to do, and go to wash my hands, raising my eyes to the mirror for a second.

Damn.

I look like shit.

I have deep circles under my eyes, a line of bruises tracking up my chin turning lovely shades of blue and deep purple, and a nice long gash running down the other side of my face. My knuckles are bloody, and I don't even know how that happened. I didn't think I even got any hits in.

Reggie. God, I can't believe he's dead. And all the other guys, too. My friends. The only people in this world I really knew.

Unless you count Sam. Which I guess I should.

An intense wave of exhaustion washes over me, and I go to crawl back into my bed. Sam's still there, but hell if I care, honestly, his presence is comforting. Pulling back the covers, I settle in next to him, hoping to fall back asleep. It's only 5:00 a.m. which is an ungodly hour to be awake anyway. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep.

There's a weird sound, like electricity crackling, and I open my eyes.

Sam's pinned to the ceiling.

His mouth is open, like he's trying to say something to me, and there's blood dripping from the wound on his stomach.

I can't speak, can't move, and I as I watch helplessly, his body bursts into flames.

* * *

Dean's screaming again.

I sit straight up, and reach over and grab Dean.

"Dean! Dean, wake up, it's only a dream!" It doesn't take as long to wake him this time, just a few solid shakes, and his eyes are open, fear lighting them up, and he stares at me, a look of deep confusion mixing with the fear.

"You're ok," he whispers, "you're ok, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. God, what did you dream?"

"You…ceiling…burning…why am I dreaming this shit?" He's shaking again, and his face is white, sweat beading up on his forehead. Dean looks terrible, between the dark circles under his eyes, and the bruises.

"Dean. There's a lot we need to talk about. But, I'd really like to get to Bobby's first, it's safe there, you'll be safe there, and since neither one of us are going to sleep anymore, we should probably just get on the road." He nods, and sits up the rest of the way, leaning back against the headboard, and pulls his knees up to his chest.

"Does your head still hurt?" A nod. "Want some Tylenol? It might help, but I am pretty sure you have a concussion." Another nod. "Ok, I'll get you some, and then we can both get showers and get out of here." Standing, I move across the room and fish the pills out of my bag, get a few out, and hand them to Dean, with a bottle of water, and he takes them.

"I'm going to get cleaned up, ok?" He nods again, staring off into the distance, his eyes slightly unfocused. "Hey. You ok?"

Dean looks at me finally, and just gives me that little nod again. He's sitting very still, his arms wrapped around his knees, and I swear he looks like a little kid, hair all messed up from sleep, eyes wide. I'm worried.

He's distant, and seems distracted, unfocused, just not all the way there. I gotta get him to Bobby's.

Bobby will know what to do.

* * *

I'm stirring a big pot of chili when I hear the Impala pull in.

Would recognize the sound of that old girl anywhere, and I can't help but grin and think to myself that my boys are home. I think of my old house as their home, wonder if they do too. Well Sam probably does at least, and I'm sure Dean used to.

I go out to the porch to greet them, and try very hard to hide my surprise at how bad Dean looks. Sam said he got his ass handed to him by the demon wearing his boss's meatsuit, but still, he's a mess.

Doesn't look like he's been sleeping much either.

Sam smiles up at me, and he looks just as tired. He opens the passenger side door and helps Dean to his feet, and asks him if he's ok. Dean just nods.

I get them both in the house, sit them down with big bowls of chili, cornbread, and beer. There's an apple pie too, but Dean barely eats anything as Sam recounts everything that happened in the past twenty-four hours.

Dean yawns, and without a word, stands and moves to the living room, collapsing into the couch without so much as a peep.

"What's going on, Sam?" Sam sighs and rubs his eyes, and I can see the exhaustion on his face.

"He's having nightmares, bad ones, about Mom burning on the ceiling."

"Crap."

"Yeah, and then this morning, he dreamt about _me _burning on the ceiling. Since then, he hasn't said more than two words to me. It's like something inside him shut down. I'm really worried."

"When I first met you boys, right after Mary passed, Dean wasn't talking then either. Maybe the last two days has been too much, and he's shut himself down as a defense. We're gonna have to just make sure he feels safe, and try and snap him out of it. It can't be easy for him, seeing as how he doesn't remember a damn thing."

"I think he's starting to remember some things. I almost missed the turn for the salvage yard, would have too, if Dean hadn't pointed it out."

"Hmm. Well that's something I guess."

"You know, the police in Pittsburg are going to fingerprint the heck out of that garage, and Dean's gonna have another mess on his hands, once Hendrickson's notified. We just can't seem to catch a break."

"I know."

Sam runs a hand through his hair, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Looking out to the living room, he takes in Dean on the couch. He's fallen asleep sitting up, listing slightly to one side.

"I'm really worried, Bobby."

"Me too, son, me too, but we'll be here for him and take it one day at a time. Now, why don't you let me worry over him for a while, and head upstairs and get some sleep? You look like you need it."

"Do I ever." He stands, and smiles at me. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Anytime, kiddo."

I watch as Sam lumbers up the stairs, then head out to the living room. A careful adjustment later, I've got Dean on his back, and I pull his boots off, and cover him with a blanket. He looks so peaceful, despite the bruises, and I watch him sleep for a moment, before heading out to clean the kitchen.

It's only about twenty minutes later when the kid starts screaming.


	10. Sleep

_So I was seriously considering wrapping this up, but I got hit by a wicked naughty plot bunny. Buckle your seat belts, there is some serious horrible angst and whumpage coming very very soon. Enjoy this chapter, I am really pleased with it. _

* * *

Am I dreaming again?

Can't always tell. The man from the nursery is here, so I think I might be. Sam's here too.

"Here" is what looks like an old cabin, rundown, barely looks like it's safe to be in. I'm up against a wall, can't move any part of my body. The man from the nursery is talking to Sam, calls him _Psychic Boy_.

Sam's furious, I can tell from here, and he's glaring at the man with undisguised fury. His face is a mess, one eye almost completely swollen shut. His hair is shorter though. Is this a memory? Am I finally starting to get some of my life back?

The man comes over and stands in front of me, he's telling me something, but all I hear is this weird, low buzzing sound. He's got a salt and pepper scruff on his face, and his eyes are hooded, dark, and angry.

"I wanna know why!" Sam says loudly, and the man turns back to him. The buzzing sound is back, it's friggin' weird, like a whole hive of bees in my head. It's bothering me, and I want to put my hands up and cover my ears, but it's like an invisible force is holding me to the wall.

I don't know why Sam seems so angry. And why does all of this seem so familiar, but at the same time, completely wrong? Like it's not supposed to be this way, something is off, something's more wrong than it appears to be, but I can't get my mind wrapped around it.

Every time I think I've figured it out, the thought slithers away.

Sam screams.

He's bleeding. There's blood everywhere, pouring from his chest, I can't tell where it's coming from, I can't see any wounds.

This is wrong. It didn't happen this way…did it? I feel like I should remember…

The man is laughing.

Sam's screaming and screaming, I want so bad to help him, but I can't walk away from the wall. I can't move! Why can't I move?!

"Dad...please…"Sam begs weakly, blood on his lips, trickling down his chin, then his head falls forward, he's unconscious, and the man, _Dad?_ turns to me.

His eyes are yellow.

* * *

And what did we learn today, Singer?

If you're going to wake a Winchester from a nightmare, stand back.

I rub my sore chin, as Dean blinks confusedly at me. He looks like a little kid, hair mussed from sleep, eyes red and bleary. I know he didn't mean to punch me, and I sure won't hold it against him.

"You ok?" He half nods, half shakes his head, and I watch him fight for control of his emotions. There's tears in his eyes, but he forces them back, and closes his eyes tight for a moment. There's a slight green pallor to his skin, and I realize he's going to be sick, and snatch a trash can and get it to him just as it happens.

Dean's violently ill, the little bit of dinner he had making an unpleasant reappearance, and I go out to my kitchen and dampen a clean dishcloth with cool water.

Back in the living room, Dean's set the waste basket on the floor, and he looks up at me with the most defeated expression I've ever seen, his eyes bloodshot. He's exhausted, probably hasn't had any decent sleep since the shit hit the fan in Pittsburg, and I'm tempted to drug him.

"You gonna be alright, kiddo?" I ask, and he just shakes his head, still not talking. I gently wipe his face with the cloth, then sit beside him on the couch.

"You're safe here you know? My place is warded against just about every type of supernatural baddie in existence." Dean still says nothing, and I move the cloth to the back of his neck. His skin is warm, warmer than it should be, and wouldn't that just be the Winchester luck to be getting sick on top of all this other crap?

Dean won't look at me, won't meet my eyes, and his shoulders shake slightly.

I realize he's trying desperately not to cry, to hide how he's feeling. Well, I ain't having that. I reach out and wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him tight against me. He's resistant, his shoulders are shaking harder, but I ain't letting go.

"Let it out, Dean. I know you're upset, and it's ok to cry. Let it out, son." He fights it a moment more, but a second later, his breath hitches, and the first silent sob slips past his lips, and I feel his shoulders slump and his whole body relaxes against mine.

"That's it, kiddo, let it out. I know you're scared, but you're safe here. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. I swear my own life on it." He's crying hard now, and his twists his neck around and buries his face on my shoulder, hot tears soaking my shirt. I wrap my arms around him, and pull him into a tight hug. Dean's whole body shakes, but he doesn't make a sound. His breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps.

We sit like that for quite a while, as he slowly calms, and I run a hand up and down his back, trying to soothe him.

This kid is every bit of a son to me. From the first moment I met him, and looked into those green eyes, too old and too knowing for a kid his age, I was done for.

I wonder if they have any idea how I feel about the two of them. I don't have much in this world, but I've left them everything in my will.

Dean's fairly calm now, and he tilts his head up at me, and his face…he's so broken. I wish I could fix this.

"Want me to give you something? Knock you out, help you sleep?" He nods, and I go out to my kitchen again. I have quite the little drug chest out there, and I am thinking a syringe of Haldol oughta do the trick. I hate the idea of drugging him, but he's gotta sleep.

He sits still while I give him the injection, and in about five minutes, he's yawning and his eyelids are drooping.

"Lay down, kid. Get some sleep." Dean snuggles back into the covers, and a few minutes later, he's out like a light. Snagging a blanket, I hunker down in the recliner.

No way am I leaving him tonight.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm very surprised to see sunlight coming in through the windows in Bobby's guest room.

I'd only meant to sleep for about an hour, but looks like I went all night. I stretch, enjoying the feel of the comfortable bed, and the well-softened sheets, such a far cry from the usual over-starched scratchy motel sheets and rock-hard mattresses I'm used to.

Bobby's place smells a whole hell of a lot better too. And really, this place is home. As close to home as Dean and I have ever had. I wonder if Bobby knows we think about his place that way.

Hell, I wonder if Bobby knows how we feel about _him_.

I sit up, yawn and stretch, feeling pleasantly well-rested. I wonder how Dean slept. The call of nature sounds, and I grab some clothes, figure I'll take a shower while I'm in there.

The hot water feels like heaven, and I revel in it for a while. The shower stall in my apartment in Pittsburg was so little, way too little for me, and the water pressure was inconsistent at best, so I am not to blame if I stayed in there a little longer than I really needed to. Not that Bobby would mind anyway.

I rinse off, shave, and get dressed, and I am actually feeling mostly human when I'm done.

After, I head downstairs, pleased to see Dean zonked out on the couch, arm thrown over his eyes. He's sound asleep, his face peaceful. I stand there and watch him sleep for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall, listening to the slight snore he's making.

I make my way out to the kitchen, and Bobby hands me a fresh mug of coffee, which I take gratefully and plop into a kitchen chair. It groans a bit, and Bobby glares at me.

"Can ya not wreck my house, ya moose?" I smile at him, amused at my own good mood. It's amazing how much better a bad situation will look when you've had a full night's sleep, a hot shower, and a steaming mug of coffee in your hand.

"Did he sleep all night?" I indicate Dean with a tilt of my head.

"Yup. I stayed in the recliner to keep an eye on him." Bobby sipped his own coffee. "I gave him some Haldol. He had a pretty brutal nightmare after you went up, then fell apart. I didn't want to drug him, but he desperately needed sleep."

I raise an eyebrow, but don't say anything. I trust Bobby. If he thought drugging Dean was the right thing to do, then it probably was.

"And no problems since?"

"Nope. Sound asleep all night, not so much as a whimper."

"Did he say anything?" Bobby grimaces.

"Nope, he still ain't talkin'. He cried his eyes out though. He's hurting, Sam, and if he ain't gonna talk about it…well, I don't know how to help him."

"All we can really do is be here for him. No hunts, just stay put, and help him get through this. I'll get a job or something, we'll figure it out." I drain the rest of my coffee, and look out to the living room, just in time to see Dean stirring. "Looks like he's waking up."

Dean makes a sound like a whine, and I realize he's having a nightmare. I stand quickly and cross the room, and kneel down beside him.

"Dean. Dean, wake up, it's just a dream, come on, bro." I give him a little shake, and his eyes flutter open.

"Sammy?" he whispers. My heart jumps, is he remembering?

He blinks owlishly at me, and his eyes are still red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot. I wait for him to say something else, but he remains silent, and my heart sinks, and I realize he's still not back with us yet. A strange look crosses his face, and a second later, he's jetting off the couch and practically running for the bathroom.

By the time I catch up, he's kneeling in front of the toilet, body shaking with dry heaves. I rest a hand on his neck, just to let him know I'm there, and I'm surprised by the amount of heat radiating off of him.

God, he's running a fever, and it feels like a high one. On top of all this other shit, he gets sick too? In what universe is that fair?

Dean groans, and I kneel down next to him.

"You gonna be ok?"

He shakes his head, and when he looks up, he's got tears in his eyes.

Dammit. I want to fix this so bad, but I don't know how. I don't even know where to start.

A fresh wave of helplessness washes over me, and the only thing I can think to do is hug him, so I wrap my arms around Dean and pull him close, and he surprises me by wrapping his arms tight around my back and burying his face in my shoulder.

"Make it stop, Sammy, please…" he whispers brokenly.

"I will, Dean, I promise." I say it, even though I have no idea how to fix it, how to stop it, how to make things better for him.

I just know that somehow, someway, I _will_ fix it.

* * *

_Just a friendly reminder to please leave a review. I'll have you know, I have changed entire story lines just because I liked ONE reviewer's idea. _

_Also, wifeymcwiferson...she's writing a fab story based on my trip to Disney World that I DID NOT want to go on. It's called Vacation Destination, Highway to Hell. Go check it out...please :*_

_Love and Demon bombs!_


	11. Fever

Another long night, and I'm up at 6am with Dean, who's again huddled over the toilet.

Still just dry heaves, he isn't bringing anything up. Last night was a series of nightmares, because with the fever, we were afraid to drug him again, but he's still refusing to talk, so I don't even know what he's dreaming about. Bobby said he wonders if it's even a conscious decision not to talk, or if the trauma has somehow shorted something out in his brain, kinda like those people who 'see too much' and get hysterical blindness.

Or in Dean's case, hysterical muteness? If that's even a thing.

On top of that, his fever has reached astronomical levels, and we've had to resort to cold, wet towels and portable fans to try and bring his temperature down, so he's stripped to just his boxers, and his limbs are shaking from the chills.

Dean moans from his place on the floor, and looks up at me pitifully. I'm really starting to worry. He can't hold anything down and it's been more than seventy-two hours since Pittsburg. He hasn't eaten or drank much of anything in that time frame, and then he went and threw up what little we did get in him. We're going to have to put an I.V. in or something or he's going to get severely dehydrated and then we'll have a whole other set of problems.

I reach down and hook an arm under him, help him get to his feet, but he's so weak I end up just scooping him up in my arms and moving him back to the couch. We had something near the couch for him to use if he got sick, but I guess he was on auto-pilot and ran for the bathroom anyway. We're damn lucky he didn't fall or something.

God, he's burning up, his skin is hot and dry against mine. An equally bleary eyed Bobby helps me get him settled, and we lay the wet towels over him, and aim the fans in his direction. He's shivering, and I know he's not comfortable, but we can't risk him having a seizure from the fever.

Nothing we've tried is breaking it. Last time we checked him, it was 103.4 and climbing.

Bobby disappears into the kitchen and returns a moment later with several packages and a wobbly clear bag of fluids tucked into the pocket of his robe.

"Gonna have to rehydrate him," he says simply. I nod, and help him start opening the packages. I'm running on fumes, and it takes me a few attempts to get the catheter package open, then I manage to drop it all on the floor.

"Crap."

"Open another one then, this shit's gotta be sterile. Not gonna give him an infection on top of everything else." The next one's a little easier, and I hold it open, using my hands like a tray for Bobby so he can concentrate on starting the I.V.

Dean's eyes are open, but they're unfocused, foggy, moving around, tracking something on the ceiling. I look up, and realize his eyes are tracing the lines of the Lesser Key of Solomon Bobby painted up there. It's scary to me just how out of it he is. That's really not a good sign.

Bobby rips open an alcohol swab, and runs it over a spot on the inside of Dean's left forearm. My brother doesn't even notice when Bobby pushes the needle into his arm, but I wince considerably as I watch Bobby move the needle around, digging for a vein.

The first attempt fails, as do the second, third and fourth. Bobby's beyond frustrated, Dean's so dehydrated he can't find a vein to run the line.

"Sam," he says as he dumps five catheter packages in the trash, "get online and see if you can find a video or instructions on a procedure called _hypodermaclysis_."

"What's that?"

"It's a rehydration method where ya plug a needle right into fatty tissues, like the stomach area, and push fluids that way. Your brother's veins are toast, and if we don't get fluids in him…well we just need to get fluids in him. I've seen it done, observed my buddy Jim do it, but I ain't sure, and I'm sure there's gotta be a You Tube or something out there."

A few minutes later, and I find a video, and more info than I could ever need on this.

"It says they mostly use it on the elderly, but looks like a solid way to push fluids without a vein. Less invasive too, but can cause mild edema at the site, so we'll have to watch for that. Says here to use a 21 or 23 gauge butterfly needle. Do you have that?"

"Do I have that? What do you take me for, boy?" I smile a little at that, Bobby's house is always well stocked.

Hope this works. Neither one of us want to take Dean to a hospital.

* * *

Well that went easier than I thought.

The needle's in the kid's belly, and judging by the constant drip, the fluids are being absorbed. Sam's in the recliner, looking completely exhausted, and I'm not feeling so hot myself. Hopefully, it'll turn out that the dehydration was causing the fever, and the infusion will help him. I'm tempted to add a bag of antibiotics, but I think I wanna see what happens first.

The ear thermometer beeps, and I hold it up to check the reading.

"Shit." Sam sits up immediately, instantly alert.

"What's wrong?"

"We're up to 104.1. Go grab every bag of frozen peas out of the deep freeze." Sam obeys without a word and is back in a moment with his arms full. He knows exactly what I meant, and is carefully tucking the bags in around Dean's neck, under his arms, his groin area.

Dean's fever is skyrocketing, and with the I.V. needle in his belly, we can't drop him into the tub, although that's what I'd prefer. Nice cold bath, submerge him up to his neck. That would help, but in the meantime, frozen peas it is.

"We'll have to keep rotating them out, pretty sure I have a ton of corn in there too, so when the peas thaw, toss 'em back in and grab the corn." Sam doesn't say anything, and I angle my head up to look at him.

His face is white, I can tell he's just barely holding himself together, and he desperately needs sleep. His eyes are completely focused on Dean. He sways slightly, and I realize he's probably not eaten a damn thing either. One thing about these Winchester boys, when one of them gets hurt, the other gets tunnel vision, and will focus so hard on their brother that they forget to take care of themselves.

Well I ain't gonna have that. I am only up to nursing one of these kids.

"Sam, sit your ass down before you fall down," I bark, and Sam jumps, and looks at me funny, but folds himself into the recliner. I check Dean's line again, make sure the fluid drip is still moving, then go out to the kitchen and warm up some chili for Sam, then put it on a tray with a slice of corn bread and a huge glass of milk. Back in the living room, I set the tray on the end table next to him.

"Eat. I ain't up to taking care of you too." Sam examines the food, and I think he's not going to go for it, and try to tell me he has no appetite, but he surprises me and finishes the whole bowl, inhales the bread, and drinks all the milk. I smile at him, pleased.

"Good. Now lay back and get some sleep, I'll watch over Dean." He nods, weariness and relief on his face, and pushes the chair back. He's out in minutes, and I turn my attention back to Dean.

His eyes are partially closed, skin white and pale. His entire frame is shivering. It's been about twenty minutes since we covered him in peas, surely his fever has gone down some by now?

Or not. Thermometer reads 104.2. How is it even possible he's gone up another degree?

His temp needs to come down, or Sam and I aren't gonna have a choice, and we're going to have to take him to the ER. Luckily, I had fake I.D.s made up for them some time ago, identifying them as my sons. So at least I won't have to worry about the law coming for him.

I lean back in the old wooden rocker I've been sitting in. Gonna close my eyes for a moment, let the fluids do their job, then go from there.

I don't mean to fall asleep.

* * *

Oh god, my head.

And my stomach.

Everything hurts. What the hell. What's going on, where am I?

I fight to get my eyes open. Where the hell am I? What happened?

There's something scratching my belly, and I reach down and grab it, pull it away, and it hurts, plus now I am covered in cold water.

Why are there bags of peas everywhere?

My stomach lurches, my vision blurs, god I gotta find a bathroom right now. I can't get up though.

Where the hell am I?

Bobby's. Sam…Sam brought me here.

God, what's wrong with me? I feel so fucked up.

Bathroom. Have to get to the bathroom.

I roll to the right and fall off the couch, landing on my knees. Sam's in a chair, sound asleep. That's good, I should leave him there.

I can get to the bathroom alone, right?

Grabbing onto the couch, I pull myself to my feet, and my stomach screams in pain, and I almost go down again.

Bathroom. Have to get to the…

God my head.

What…?

Bathroom.

Somehow I make it there, stumble in, rest my hand on the sink.

Wait…

I don't…

God, my head…so dizzy.

And then I'm falling, holy shit the toilet…

My head bounces off the seat, my vision…

I can't…oh god…

She's burning…

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Now Dean! Go!_

_Dad went on a hunting trip and hasn't been home in a few days._

_This is Dad's single most valuable possession. Everything he knows about every evil thing is in here. And he's passed it on to us. I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. You know, saving people, hunting things. The family business._

Sam?

_Dad? I know I've left you messages before. I don't even know if you get 'em... But, I'm with Sam. And we're in Lawrence, and there's something in our old house. I don't know if it's the thing that killed mom or not. But, I don't know what to do... So whatever you're doing, if you could get here... Please. I need your help Dad._

_Hey. You better take care of that car. Or I swear I'll haunt your ass._

_You gotta understand somethin'. After your mother passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere. And all I cared about was, was keepin' you boys alive. I wanted you prepared. Ready. So somewhere along the line I uh, I stopped being your father, and I, I became your, your drill-sergeant. So when you said that you wanted to go away to school, all I could think about, my only thought was, that you were gonna be alone. Vulnerable. Sammy it just, it never occurred to me what you wanted. I just couldn't accept the fact that you and me... we're just different._

My head. God my head. Sam. Sammy?

_Sam, look... the three of us... that's all we have... it's all I have... sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together, man... without you and Dad..._

_You know, you fight and you fight for this family. But the truth is, they don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam - he's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you._

_Dad! Dad don't you let it kill me! Dad…please._

Oh my god.

I remember.

Sammy.

I remember…

Oh god, I gotta tell him. I have to tell Sam.

He's there, I can see him calling my name, he looks scared.

I have to tell him.,,

It's ok…

I remember…Sammy, I remember.

And then a blinding flash of pain in my stomach, so intense my vision whites out, and it's more pain that I can ever remember feeling.

My head is spinning, and my vision clears, and Sam's there, he's pulling me into his arms.

I have to tell him…

"Sa…Sammy…Sammy…"

Another blast of pain, and my vision whites out again, and I feel like I'm falling.

Then everything goes black.

* * *

_So I made some adjustments to the previous chapters to help firm up the timeline. I mentioned earlier that this was like a season 3 AU, no deal, no Ruby. Well, that has changed, and I have adjusted the previous chapters to compensate, although it's nothing glaring, and won't change the story that much. Now, this is a solid season two in-canon story. It takes place closer to mid-season, well before AHBL._

_Enjoy, and please leave a review!_

_Also, thanks to Wifey and her hubs for the med advice._


	12. Seizure

_"BOBBY!"_

He comes tearing around the corner, and I've got Dean in my arms. His eyes have rolled back in his head, and his limbs are shaking and jerking and holy fuck he's having a seizure!

"Bobby! What do I do, what do I do?!" I'm freaking out, and Bobby's pushing past me to get to Dean.

"Dammit! How did he even get in here?!" Bobby's running his hands along Dean's head. "He's got a hell of a lump back here, he must've fallen. Dammit Dean!"

The seizure stops as suddenly as it began, and I have a deathly still brother lying in my arms.

"It's time, Sam. He needs a hospital _now._ We'll take him, will be faster than an ambulance." Bobby leaves the bath, comes back a moment later with a blanket. "Wrap him up. Can you carry him?"

I don't respond, I'm stuck staring at Dean. He's pale, he's not moving. God, what if he's dying? What if this is it? Did I find him just to lose him again? Please, God, I don't know if you even listen to us anymore, but please help him, I can't lose him, I can't, not now, not _ever,_ please…

"SAM! Snap out of it boy! Can you carry him or not?" I jump and nod at Bobby. He hands me the blanket, and helps me lift Dean slightly to wrap it around him. I haul myself to my feet, Dean dead weight in my arms. If he were awake, he would be _pissed_ that I am carrying him bridal style.

Bobby goes ahead of me, opening doors, the keys to the Impala dangling from his hand, and we manage to get Dean settled into the backseat, and I climb in with him.

Firing up the engine, Bobby shifts into gear and tears out of the salvage yard.

Dean's stirring, whispering something, but I can't make out what it is. He's restless, but not awake, head tossing back and forth, mumbled words slipping from his lips.

"Hang on, Dean," I whisper, "we'll be there soon."

* * *

Why the hell do I hurt so bad?

My damn head, this damn pounding, fuckin' Christ it hurts. My stomach feels like someone's running knives through it.

"Boy, what are you doing?"

My eyes fly open, I'm sitting in the driver's seat of the Impala. How the hell did I get here?

I turn to look at the man sitting next to me, dark hair, brown eyes, salt and pepper scruff. His eyes are narrowed, he looks pissed, and I can't believe it.

"Dad?"

"Don't _'Dad'_ me, what the hell are you doing, Dean?"

"Um. I..I don't know? What am I supposed to be doing? I don't even know how I got here."

Dad's pissed, I can see it all over him. It's that same look he gave me when I almost got Sam killed by the shtriga. The same look he gave me when Sam ran off to Flagstaff. The same look I got when Sam took off for Stanford.

It's the _I-have-every-right-to-be-mad-because-I-am-John-Winchester-and-I-know-everything_ look.

"So what did happen to you? Where's Sam?"

Sam. That's a good question. I don't know the answer.

"I…I don't…I don't know?"

"Is that a question or an answer, son?"

"Um…"

"What did I tell you Dean? I gave you a job, do you remember what it was?"

I think for a minute, wracking my brain to try and remember. My memory's foggy…did I hit my head or something?

"I don't remember, Dad."

"Dammit, Dean! One job, I gave you one job, and you can't remember? I trained you better than this!"

God, he's pissed…but…

_Isn't he dead?_

I'm so fucking confused. What the hell did I drink last night?

"One job…" he repeats, and shakes his head.

The car windows look weird. Shit, everything looks weird. Why is everything so bright?

Fuck. I think there's something wrong with me.

"Dad. Where's Sam?"

"Dean! This is exactly what I am talking about! You're supposed to watch out for Sammy, watch out for your brother. What did I tell you? You have to save him, remember? You have to save him, or you'll have to kill him!"

I turn and look at him in shock.

"Dad…why would you…why would you say something like that? I don't…I don't understand, Dad…"

The light in the windows of the Impala grows brighter, it hurts my eyes.

"Dad, please," he's fading in front of me, he's transparent, I can see the passenger door through him. "Dad, don't go, please, I don't underst…ahhh God!"

Pain tears through my abdomen, and my head screams, feel like my brain's exploding.

I grab my head, and close my eyes.

Oh my god, pain. Hurts. Hurts so damn bad.

"Dad…Dad…"

* * *

"Dean! It's not real, he's not really there! Stay with me, please Dean, stay with me! God, Bobby, he's having another seizure!"

Sam's voice is frantic, Dean's calling for his father, my heart's in my throat. I push the Impala's pedal to the ground, and the engine responds with a mighty roar. Thank god that kid keeps her tuned!

We squeal into the Ambulance bay, scaring the shit out of some nurses, and Sam's kicking the door open, screaming for help. One of the nurses runs inside, the other comes over to assess Dean, who's still violently shaking with the seizure.

Sam's hysterical, begging the nurse to help Dean, and some other folks come running out of the ER with a gurney. Dean's quickly removed from Sam's arms, and hustled into the building, Sam practically running after them. I move to follow, and a security guard demands that I move the car, so I do that first.

By the time that's all done, and I am heading into the ER, it's just to find Sam loudly arguing with a couple of guards who are escorting him to the waiting room.

His face is red, he's about as angry as I've ever seen him. I better diffuse him fast.

"Sam, come on son, let 'em take care of your brother."

"They won't let me see him! I need to make sure he's ok!" Sam tries to push past the guards again, but one of them is easily as big as he is, and he's not getting anywhere. I reach up and put my hand on his arm, and say his name very quietly.

"Sam."

He stops, and looks at me pitifully, his eyes filling with tears.

"Bobby…I don't…" he says brokenly, his bottom lip trembling.

"I know son. Let's go sit down a moment." I take him by the arm, and he allows me to lead him to a row of blue plastic chairs.

"Sit."

He sits, immediately dropping his head into his hands. It's then that I notice he's in sweats, a tee, and a pair of socks. I'm not much better in flannel jammies and a bathrobe. At least I have slippers on.

We're the only ones in here for the moment. It's quiet.

Somewhere on the other side of the wall, they're working on Dean.

I will never forget how he looked. That seizure. Damn. I shoulda brought him in sooner…if something happens to him…

I'll never forgive myself.

* * *

Ok stop poking me dammit.

_Can't find a vein._

Get your fucking hands off me.

_BP sixty over forty and falling._

Stop touching me you fuckers.

_Heart rate 170 and climbing. Possible internal bleeding?_

Why won't they leave me alone? Sammy?

_Temp 104.3. Abdominal distention. Dean, if you can hear us, you have to stop fighting us._

OH JESUS FUCK PLEASE DON'T TOUCH MY STOMACH AGAIN!

_Definite positive reaction to abdominal palpation. Call upstairs, we need an OR stat._

"Hello, Dean-o."

My eyes fly open. I'm lying on a bed or something, and he's there. Yellow eyes! What the hell?

He reaches down and pushes hard on my stomach, and I can't help it, I scream.

_OR, yesterday, I think we are looking at a rupture here. Hang on kid! _

I can't move. I can barely breathe. He's grinning at me.

"Oh, Dean-o, who's gonna look after Sweet Sammy while you're in here, laying on your ass? Maybe I'll look after him. Wouldn't that be fun?"

No. No. No. Nononononononononononononono no. God…help me.

_Heart rate still climbing! Dean, you have to calm down, we're trying to help you. Don't fight us._

Oh it hurts. It hurts so bad.

Why are the lights so damn bright?

He's laughing, laughing his ass off. I have to get to Sam. I have to get to Sam. I have to…

_He's seizing! _

* * *

I think I was pacing back and forth for about fifteen minutes before I even realized I was doing it.

It's been hours. Hours. Nothing. No news, no hint at what's going on with Dean. Bobby's long since finished filling out the paperwork, Dean Singer it is. He even had insurance cards for us. Never underestimate a seasoned hunter's ability to fake it.

I can't sit still, I've tried. I'm tired, exhausted, but so anxious and restless that I don't know what to do with myself. I'm worried sick about Dean. Bobby's tried to get me to eat something, but it's just not going to happen.

The waiting room is pretty full now, I'd guess it's about noon. It was early morning when we brought Dean in. God, hours. This is insane, someone back there has to know something! I started heading for the reception desk, but Bobby intercepts me.

"Sit down, I can see that temper brewing on your face. Ya ain't gonna do us no favors making enemies of the ER staff."

I glare at Bobby, but resume my pacing.

Someone has to know something. They have to tell us something. I'm losing it.

"Family of Dean Singer?" A nurse sticks her head out the door, clipboard in hand.

"I'm his father," Bobby states assertively, "this is his brother." The nurse nods and holds the door open.

"Right this way then, Dr. Vanskiver will see you now."

I draw in a deep breath, and follow her and Bobby through the door.

This is it, finally going to get some information. Wish I could get rid of this feeling though…like things are wrong.

Really wrong.

* * *

Ugh.

What the…

Where?

Dad? Sam? What…

Something in my throat. Hurts.

Hell, everything hurts.

My head is pounding. I can hear voices. Hands on me.

Smells like…hospital. Am I in a hospital?

What happened to me? Sammy?

No, Sammy went away. He's gone. Where did he go? Dad was so angry…

I need to get up. Figure out what's going on. Can't move though.

More hands. I'm being moved I think.

Why the hell can't I open my eyes.

Sammy? Are you there?

No. College. Sam's at Stanford.

Dad's on a hunt. I'm alone.

Alone.

Alone.

_Alone._

I hate being alone. I want Sam. Where are you Sammy?

I don't want…I'm hurt…Sammy…Sammy…Sam…

Help me.


	13. Hey Jude

It's too fucking soon.

Weren't we just doing this less than a year ago? Me, standing over my brother's bed, while he's unconscious, and hooked up to equipment…at least there's no ventilator this time, just the oxygen cannula under his nose and the heart monitor beeping softly in the background.

I guess anytime in this life would've been too soon.

At least I'm not alone, Bobby's been with me the whole time.

Dean's so still. He looks so fragile. They had to cut a hole in his head. A hole. In his head. So now there's a mass of white bandages around his head, and I know that underneath, they've shaved him. That would piss him off. He doesn't wear his hair nearly as long as I do, but he's plenty vain enough with what he does have.

He looks like so fragile. His skin's almost translucent, and so pale, his freckles standing out clearly against white skin.

_A previous head injury, exacerbated by the secondary head injury caused a subdural hematoma, which then increased the bleeding on his brain, which is what likely lead to the onset of seizures. We've had to cut a small hole in his skull to relieve the pressure. The fever was caused by a ruptured appendix, which lead to internal bleeding._

What the doctor was basically telling me was that Dean hitting his head on the toilet caused a second head injury, but that he'd already been bleeding in his skull from the first smack to the head he got when the demon tossed him around in the garage.

This comes down to my fault. He had a head injury and I didn't treat it, and now he's got a 'sub-acute subdural hematoma'.

Way to go me. Way to take care of my big brother.

On top of all that, his appendix ruptured, causing severe internal bleeding, which in turn caused the fever, and the vomiting…he's a mess. And it's my fault.

I sit in the chair closest to his bed, and reach out and take his hand. He's still running a fever, though not nearly as severe as before, and his hand is warm and dry in mine.

I can't stand his stillness. It's freaking me out. Dean looks like a child lying there, completely helpless and I know it's down to me to watch over him, like he's been doing for me all my life. It hits me again, how fragile life is, how quickly we can lose the people we love.

But it's true. I'm still not over Jess, maybe I never will be. I still have trouble accepting that Dad's gone. I just found Dean again, and now he's here, in the hospital, again.

Of all the things I hate about hunting, this is the number one. This is the reason I was so desperate to get out. I was so tired of seeing them hurt. I was tired of sewing them up. I was so sick of it, and the way Dean always made sure it was him that got hurt and not me…I couldn't take it anymore. And I walked away so I wouldn't have to. It's the most selfish thing I have ever done in my life, and by doing it, I sucked a beautiful, wonderful woman into my world and got her killed.

I sigh, I'm exhausted, and I run a hand through my hair. Bobby left a while ago, to get some clothes for me, and himself, says he'll bring me something to eat.

Studying Dean's face, I watch his eyes carefully, desperate to see his eyes twitch, or something, but his long eyelashes remain completely still on white cheeks. I just want some type of movement.

Anything, Dean. Just let me know you're still in there.

* * *

Got a sub and some chips for Sam, how much you wanna bet he don't eat it?

Gonna do my best to make him though. I brought him some clothes and toiletries too, cause there ain't no way I'll be able to get him out of here as long as Dean's in that bed.

I get in the room, which is fairly dim, and I see Sam. He's got one big hand completely wrapped around Dean's, and he's laid his head down on the bed and passed out, his other arm hanging loose, fingertips brushing the floor. As per usual with Sam, he's too big for the chair, and looks ridiculous. I can't help but crack a smile.

I set all the stuff on Dean's nightstand, and sit down in the other chair with a newspaper. I can wait, no need to wake Sam, especially since he won't sleep much while Dean's here.

Hard to believe we are doing this again. Doesn't seem like all that long ago when we were so sure we were gonna lose Dean after that demon with the semi slammed into the Impala.

Would've too, if John ain't done what he done.

I don't agree with John, what he did. Dean's not been dealing well with knowing his dad went to hell to save his life. I think he knew right from the beginning what happened.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am glad as hell the boy's still here, but all John did was give Dean more weight to bear on his already overloaded shoulders.

That kid can't see his own self-worth because all he thinks he is good for is protecting Sam. Just about every argument John and I ever had was because of the way he raised Dean. And while it's not like Sam had a wonderful childhood, at least he got to be a child. Dean made sure of it, but Dean never had that. He grew up at four years old when Sam was thrust into his arms as their mother burned on the ceiling.

I don't agree with John's parenting style. I never did. He should have mourned his wife, then walked away, gotten a job, and raised his boys.

Standing, I cross the room to study Dean. He's so still, his face is so white. I gently touch the bandages on his head.

Sub-acute subdural hematoma with a ruptured appendix.

Damn, and we thought he was just dehydrated.

I could kick myself for not bringing him in sooner. I should've seen it. The weakness, the lethargy, the confusion. It was all there, I just didn't see it.

Way to go, Singer. You obtuseness coulda cost this boy his life. Still could really. So much could still go wrong.

He's so weak and so fragile, one infection and…

Never mind. Let's not go there.

* * *

There's a smell, I can't figure out what it is.

I'm warm, and comfortable.

Someone's singing, I can just make out the words.

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad._

_Take a sad song and make it better._

_Remember to let her into your heart,_

_Then you can start to make it better._

I open my eyes to sunlight overhead. I'm lying in soft grass, and I turn my head to the side. Someone's over there, digging in a garden, but the light's blinding me, and I can't see who it is.

_Hey Jude, don't be afraid._

_You were made to go out and get her._

_The minute you let her under your skin,_

_Then you begin to make it better._

_And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain,_

_Don't carry the world upon your shoulders._

_For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool_

_By making his world a little colder._

I sit up, rub my eyes, and the world comes into focus. I stare at the gardener, the one who's singing…

No.

It can't be.

I pull myself to my feet, shaking, I can't really be seeing this. But she turns, blonde hair tumbling over slender shoulders, green eyes that match mine sparkling, and that smile…I'd know that smile anywhere.

"M…Mom?"

She stands, crossing the yard towards me, pretty white sundress moving in the breeze, and cups my chin in her hand, and the smell from before, like apple pie, it's all over her.

"Oh sweetie, did you fall asleep on the grass? Silly boy." She pulls me down, and kisses my forehead, and I'm crying without even realizing it, and she's got my hand now, and she's dragging me into the house…

Wait. How is this even happening?

"Am I dead?" I blurt, and she stops moving, a more serious look on her face.

"No sweetie. You're still alive. Come sit with me and have some pie."

"Ok," I whisper, a little scared, cause I don't know where this is going.

I sit at the table, and Mom gently ruffles my hair, then heads out to the kitchen to get my pie.

She brings over two plates, and a glass of milk, and sits with me, and I eat the most surreal piece of pie I've ever had. If I'm dreaming, it's one hell of a dream, 'cause I sure as hell can't remember ever actually _tasting_ things in my dreams.

"Where's Sammy?" I ask. If it's a dream, maybe he's here too. I haven't seen him since he left for Stanford…even dream Sam would be awesome.

"He's on the other side. Waiting to see you when you wake up."

"Wake up?"

"Yes. You're unconscious, and Sam's waiting for you." She leans in, and puts a hand on my arm, and grins. "Gotta stop hitting your head, Dean."

My head? I don't remember…

Bobby's house. The toilet. I got dizzy, lost my balance…and I remembered! I remembered everything.

Then it all rushes back, the mine, Pittsburg, the hunt, Reggie, being so sick I thought I really was going to die.

Dad.

Dad, who sold his soul to hell for me.

Dad, who told me I'd have to save Sammy or I'd have to kill him.

Dammit, Dad.

Mom rubs my arm.

"It's ok, you know?"

"What?"

"It's ok. If something happened, and you wanted to let go, to move on…John shouldn't have put all of that on you. Things would have been so different if I'd lived."

She gets up, takes the empty plates from the table into the kitchen.

"What do you mean, Mom? About letting go?"

"Exactly that, Dean. Sweetie, I can see the exhaustion in your eyes. You're tired of fighting. You're tired of watching everyone around you die. Why do you have to be responsible for everyone? Why is it your job to constantly protect Sam? Who protects you, Dean?"

"Mom…are you telling me…to let myself…to let myself die?"

She turns back to me, comes closer and touches my face again.

"There's so much peace here, Dean. You could stay. No one would think badly of you."

"I have to watch over Sam. That's my job, Mom."

"No it isn't. Just let go Dean. Let it all go."

My jaw drops, and she moves in even closer, and I shove her away. God help me, I shove her away.

"No!" I yell, and she shrinks away from me. "I protect Sam! That's who I am, that's what I am. I'm not ready to die!"

I turn and run out of the kitchen and back out into the yard, and she's calling me back, but I don't stop.

I run out into the street, looking for something, anything, I need to wake up.

And then I see her. Baby.

It's like she's waiting for me. I smile as I slip into the driver's seat.

"Take me home, sweetheart."

* * *

I feel something brush my hand, and sit up, startled.

I'm met by confused green eyes.

He's awake.

My brother's awake!

* * *

_Go thank Wifermcwiferson for the medical crap that makes sense. Guys, I can't thank you enough for the follows and reviews. They're gas for the Impala. Hugs!_


	14. Awake

Dean groans and his grip on my hand tightens.

He's in pain. I push the call button, and a nurse assures me she'll be in right away.

"Hey. It's ok, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere."

Green eyes meet mine, he's awake, but he's really out of it.

Dr. Vanskiver comes into the room, thick brown hair in a braid down her back, and she smiles reassuringly at me.

"I hear someone decided to wake up," she smiles, as she moves over to Dean. "Hey there, Dean. Glad to see you awake. You gave your family quite a scare. How are you feeling now? Any pain?"

"Lots…lots of…pain." Dean's voice is rough, and I can tell it's an effort to get the words out. "Head…hurts…so bad."

"Ok, we'll get you something. I'm going to check your eyes with my little light here, you probably aren't going to like it, and I can pretty much guarantee we're going to be poking and prodding all day, so let me apologize in advance."

She shines the light in his eyes, checking for the reactiveness of his pupils. A nurse stands beside her, taking Dean's temperature and blood pressure. The doc puts her fingers on Dean's wrist, at the pulse point, and studies her watch for a moment, counting the beats.

Smiling, she rests a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Ok, next up, probably going to drag you downstairs and do another MRI and CT scan, just because we love torturing our patients." She's funny, I really appreciate her bedside manner, and I'm glad she's Dean's doctor. "In the meantime, rest, talk to your brother. Anything else you need?"

"Thirsty."

"Hmm. No liquids yet, but I think we could probably get you some ice chips. Just let Sam handle the cup, ok?" Dean nods, not pleased, but not arguing either. "Good, I'll have the nurse bring some in with your pain meds. See you in a bit, ok?"

"Thanks Doc," I grin at her.

"No problem, Sam." She has a nice smile.

"Flirt." Dean's rough voice makes me grin.

"She's cute." He shakes his head, and closes his eyes.

"Hurts," he rasps, and I feel for him. He's got to be hurting, his skull's been cut open for Christ's sake.

"They'll be back with the pain meds. It'll be ok."

"This…real?"

"What do you mean?"

"Not…dream? Real?"

Hmm. Doc said he might be confused when he woke up.

"No, it's real, you're really here, I'm really here, and Bobby will be back." A different nurse, a man this time, enters with a syringe and a cup of ice chips in hand. He sets the ice down on Dean's tray, then injects the syringe into Dean's IV line.

"That should help," he says pleasantly. "Doc wants us to keep pushing fluids, and you're going to have a lot of tests done, so try and rest now while you can, ok?" He leaves, and Dean and I are alone again.

"What…happened?"

"Dude. Your appendix ruptured, and you had a bad concussion from smacking you head on the toilet." That's more than enough info for now, I can tell him the rest later.

Dean nods, he already looks like he's about to zone out, probably the effects of the meds.

"Ice?" he rasps weakly, and I get some on a spoon and put it in his mouth. He's very weak, doesn't even seem able to lift his head off the pillow. I know the Doc seemed pleased, but I'm worried anyway. Dean always accuses me of being a mother hen, might as well live up to it.

I lean back in my chair, and study my brother. He's still pale, his eyes are closed, his breathing is a little on the rough side. I was hoping we'd be able to talk before he drifted back off, but he's gone, I can tell by the way every line in his face has smoothed over.

Well, guess we'll have plenty of time for that. Doc told me it's going to be a rough recovery, there will likely be physical therapy involved, he may need to relearn some skills, depending on how screwed up his brain got.

I'll be here though, and Bobby's assured me we can stay at his place indefinitely, although I am going to have to find some kind of work. Bad enough Bobby's probably going to end up paying for a large portion of Dean's hospitalization; not going to have him supporting us too.

Standing, I stretch and walk over to the window, looking out onto the grounds of the hospital. It's a pretty June day out there, lots of people milling about. It's actually kind of pretty. Maybe when Dean's up and around a little more, I can take him out there.

I wonder if he'll ever remember anything. Our past, our parents…he's lost all of that. I wonder if he'll ever get it back or if it's gone for good.

Damn, I hope not.

* * *

Sam is bustling around the room when I get back, cleaning up and rearranging everything in sight.

"Boy, what _are _you doin'?"

"I can't sit still. Dean was awake, maybe for ten minutes, now he's been out for forty-five, and I can't sit still! I need something to do, so I am doing something. Pointless something, but something." He stops for a minute and grins. "Did you miss the part where I said he was awake for ten minutes?"

"No, I sure didn't. Did the Doc say anything?" I plop down in a chair, far enough away that Sam won't try to clean me up.

"Lots of tests today. Dean said he was hurting, so they doped him up, and boom! He's out again." Sam looks more than a little disappointed. "I really wish he would have stayed awake long enough to talk a little, but I know he needs rest."

Sam finally sits, dropping into the chair closest to the bed, and reaching for the brown paper sack I brought him. His face lights up when he pulls out a salad and he happily digs in.

"Didn't even realize I was this hungry," he tells me with a full mouth.

"Imagine that," I counter dryly. If I wasn't around, Sam probably wouldn't eat at all. "Brought some more clothes for you, and stuff for Dean to wear home…whenever that happens."

"Soon, I hope. The Doc seemed pleased with his alertness."

"Has he remembered anything?"

"I don't know. He passed out again before I could ask."

There's a low groan from Dean's direction, and Sam and I are both on our feet in an instant, me going to one side of his bed, Sam to the other. Sam reaches down and takes Dean's hand.

Dean blinks, groans again, makes a move like he wants to sit up.

"Hey, Dean, it's ok, lie still, alright? You've been through a lot, need to lie still." He looks at me blankly, then his eyes travel to Sam.

"Sammy…" he rasps, his voice weak, "thirsty."

"Ok, bro, I got this." Sam grabs a cup off the bed table, and spoons a few pieces of ice into Dean's mouth. Dean closes his eyes again, and I'm guessing he's about to drop back off.

Poor kid's about as weak as they come.

* * *

Bobby.

Sammy.

Hospital room.

Thirsty.

Ok, Winchester, wake up.

I manage to pry my eyes open to find Bobby and Sam hovering over my bed, and friggin' Sam is holding my hand. Big hairy girl. I don't move to pull mine away, so what's that make me…huh.

I try to sit up, and Sam gently pushes me back down, and tells me to lay still. Ok, fine Samantha.

"Thirsty," I tell him, but all I get is those miserable ice chips. Guess an ice cold beer ain't gonna happen. Sam fusses with my blankets, then my pillows, holy crap mother hen.

"Sammy…cool it," I growl, and Bobby chuckles and receives a class "A" bitchface for his troubles.

"Just trying to make sure you're comfortable," he retorts petulantly, looking like a five year old…a gigantor five year old, but still.

"I'm good, Sammy. You look tired."

"Nah, man, I'm good. You know, just waiting on your lazy ass to get up." He grins, and I return the smile, feeling my lips crack. Ow. Sam frowns, grabs a friggin' _Chapstick_ and puts some on me. I do my best to give him a death glare, and he just grins at me.

"Deal with it, you're too weak to stop me!" Then he sticks his tongue out.

I take it back, he's not a gigantor five year old. He's a gigantor _two _year old!

"Am I a pretty princess now, Samantha?" He chuckles.

"A very pretty princess, _Deanna."_

"Do I need to separate you two?" Bobby pats my shoulder. "Glad to see you up, kid."

A nurse comes in and announces its time for me to go down and get an MRI. Yay. Sam's pulling a bitchface again because they told him to stay in the room. Haha, can't win 'em all Sammy.

I must've dozed off on the ride down there, cause next thing I know, I'm being rolled into a big room with this giant white tube thing in the middle. A bunch of dudes lift me up (that's eight kinds of embarrassing) and move me from the bed to the MRI table.

I'm hit with an incredible wave of vertigo, and I'm positive I am going to pass out. They're sliding me into the tube, and the vertigo gets worse. I close my eyes and concentrate on staying calm. God, I am really not feeling good. I want to get out of this thing. It's so noisy and cramped…

And then it's over, and they're moving me again, and the room just spins. I close my eyes tight, doing my best to stay with them. Then I'm opening my eyes in my room, Sam smiling down at me.

I passed out again? This losing time shit is confusing as hell.

Don't feel right. My head is spinning, feel like I am going to pass out. Maybe I need more rest.

My eyes are closing even as I think it, and I'm pulled back down into blackness.

* * *

I'm worried about Dean.

He can't keep his eyes open for any substantial amount of time, and when he is conscious, he's foggy and confused.

It's been more than forty-eight hours since we brought him in, I don't know, I just thought he would be doing better by now.

The nurse comes in to do vitals, and he frowns as he reads Dean's blood pressure, but doesn't say anything.

"I'm gonna go downstairs and get a coffee. Ya want anything?" Bobby asks.

"Maybe a bottle of water?"

"Sure, kid. Back in a few."

Bobby leaves, and I pull a chair next to Dean's bed, sit down and pick up his hand again. Weird. His skin is clammy, almost too cool. The door opens, and Doctor Vanskiver comes in, a concerned look on her face, the male nurse right behind her.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

"Stu noticed Dean's blood pressure has dropped. I just need to make sure he's still ok. It's probably nothing," she adds reassuringly, but her eyes are watching Dean's monitor closely, and there's a slight frown on her face.

"S'mmm?" Dean suddenly slurs.

"Right here, Dean, I'm right here." I squeeze his hand.

"Don't…."

"What? What's wrong."

Dean opens his eyes, and stares up at me, a little half smile on his lips.

"I…I remember…wanted to tell…you…remember…everything." I smile and squeeze his hand again.

"That's great, Dean! I'm so glad. I'm glad you're back." A funny look crosses his face, one filled with sorrow, and…regret?

"I'm…S'mmy…I'm…so…sorry…"

Dean's eyes roll back in his head. The monitor starts screaming. Doc is pushing the call button and screaming Code Blue into the microphone and I am just sitting there.

What's happening?

"He's in VFIB! We need a crash cart now!"

No.

No.

No.

This is not happening. Not now.

Dean.

* * *

_Please don't kill me. It's not a death fic, I do have an endgame, I swear. Thanks as always to the lovely Wifey, goddess of med info. Please leave a review, please and thank you :)_


	15. Setback

I don't feel good.

I want to wake up, I have to talk to Sam.

I call his name, not even sure if I'm awake, but he's there, he's got my hand.

The doctor sounds worried. I don't blame her, something is really wrong with me. My chest hurts, I'm so damn dizzy…something's really wrong here.

"Right here, Dean, I'm right here."

So much I want to tell him. So much I want to say.

"Don't…."

"What? What's wrong?"

I open my eyes, stare up at Sam, try for a smile. I'm hit with a wave of dizziness, I know I'm going under but I have to tell him.

"I…I remember…wanted to tell…you…remember…everything." Sam smiles and squeezes my hand again.

"That's great, Dean! I'm so glad. I'm glad you're back."

Oh god, Sammy. I wish I could tell you, wish I could explain how I feel about you. How much I love you. I should have told you more…shouldn't have worried so much about being a girl and just told you. I loved you from the minute Mom laid you in my arms. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, you're my baby brother, and I love you so much…if I could just get the words out…god Sammy…I'd do anything for you…and I don't want to leave you…but I can't…I can't hold on anymore…

"I'm…S'mmy…I'm…so…sorry…"

It's the last thing I'm able to get out, the pain in my chest increasing, and it's like a blanket being pulled up over me, and I'm gone.

I've failed him, I've failed Dad…

I'm sorry, Sammy.

* * *

I'm shoved out of the way, Dean's hand slipping from mine as they push me away.

So much is happening, there are nurses everywhere, they're dropping his bed flat, pulling the blankets down, yanking his gown away, and sliding a tube down his throat. He's lifted, and a heavy rubber sheet is slid underneath him.

Oh god, I've seen this before. They're going to use a defibrillator, try to fix his heart.

He's dying.

Jesus Christ, he's dying.

This can't be happening.

My back hits the wall, and I lean against it for support, but my knees don't want to hold, and I slide to the ground. I'm numb, can't think, can't tear my eyes away from Dean, he's so pale, so still. God, I'm going to lose him.

The Doctor charges the paddles on the machine and then I watch as Dean's back arches up into the charge. She does it twice more before his heart comes back online, and then they are pulling his bed out of the room.

I'm still sitting there, staring at the place where his bed had been when Bobby finds me. He takes one look at me, and the crap all over the floor, and sighs.

"Dean?" he asks quietly.

I shake my head. I don't have any words for this. I don't know what's happening.

Wetness drips onto my hand, and I reach up, touch my face, surprised to find that I'm crying. Bobby comes and sits next to me, and really, what else can we do? I don't know where they took Dean, everyone was too busy saving his life to tell me anything, and that's ok, but I just want someone to come tell me he's alright.

I don't understand what's going on here.

"I thought he was better. He was awake and talking to me, and then he said 'I'm sorry' and the monitors went crazy, and they pulled a crash cart in, his heart was in vfib, then they took him out of here. I don't even know what's happening or where they were going…Bobby…I don't…I'm so scared." My voice trails off to a whisper.

He puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me down into a hug, and the dam bursts and I sob.

I just want Dean to be ok.

* * *

Sam and I sit on the floor of Dean's room for over an hour, waiting for any kind of news.

A nurse took pity on us at one point, brought us sandwiches and Cokes, but neither one of us can eat.

Sam's in a state of shock, and I know he's gotta be thinking about the last time, when Dean was in the hospital and there was a reaper hanging around.

I can tell ya right now, there won't be no soul sellin' this time.

We're waiting for the doc, the nurse just popped in to let us know she's on the way, and I hope it's good news, but I got a bad feelin' about this.

Dr. Vanskiver pushes the door open, and pokes her head inside.

"Hi guys," she says, a tight smile on her face, "wanna come with me?" I get up, help Sam up, kid's in a haze, and we follow the doc down the hall to an elevator. Once inside, she pushes the button for the second floor.

Crap. ICU is on the second floor. How much ya wanna bet that's where we're going?

Sure enough, she leads us down the hall, using her key card to open the door. The ward is hushed and quiet, and she opens the door on her left, taking us into a meeting room. There's a large table, and several chairs, and she motions for us to sit.

"I just need to grab the Dr. Hammonds, I'll be right back." She closes the door behind her, and I look at Sam.

"Sam?" No response. "Sam, son, ya gotta snap out of it." He finally turns and looks at me, his eyes tired and bloodshot. I want to comfort him, tell him it's going to be alright, but hell, I can't guarantee that at all.

The doc pushes the door open, and she's with a tall, bald, black man, and she introduces him as Dr. Mark Hammonds, attending physician for the ICU.

"Hello, gentlemen, I will be Dean's doctor until he leaves the ICU. Dr. Vanskiver and I have both been working with Dean today, so we will brief you together, then I will be taking over his case."

Doctor Vanskiver nods, referring to her chart.

"As you can see, Dean is not improving the way we were all hoping he would. His abdominal infection worsened, the antibiotics we had him on were unable to clear the infection. He is currently in what we call Systemic Inflammatory Response Syndrome. Basically, his body became overloaded with infectious toxins, which have shut down his kidneys, lungs, and have caused his cardiac functions to be all over the place, which is what you saw upstairs, Sam. Septic shock, the layman's term, is hard to combat." She seems almost apologetic, like the situation is her fault personally.

"He is currently on a vent so he can breathe, which means he's sedated so he can't pull the tube out. We need to start him on hemodialysis to help his body filter out the infectious toxins, which will hopefully remove the strain from his kidneys. He's going to need blood transfusions as well as extensive IV antibiotics and fluid replacement to help not only restore his fluids, but to help his kidneys and liver push the toxins out. We need you two to discuss just how far you want us to go with this."

"Sam has the same blood type as his brother, if that helps." Yeah, Sam, his brother, the boy who's completely detached himself from this discussion, sitting as still and as silent as a stone beside me.

"That would be very helpful, we will keep that in mind," Dr. Hammonds says, and he makes a notation on his clipboard.

"We've used something called APACHE II to help us determine his...mortality rate. His age is a great factor in his survival rate. However, as you saw upstairs, this is a very serious condition that unfortunately comes with a lot of associated risks and unknown factors. Treating this condition is also a gamble, antibiotics are necessary to help resolve the infection that began and is perpetuating his condition, but they are also very hard on his already damaged kidneys and liver."

At this point, Sam, who hasn't said a damn thing so far, rasps, "Am I going to lose my brother?" Dr. Vanskiver sighs.

"Sam...I wish I could give you an honest answer, and the one you want to hear. But with Dean in his current unstable state, I can't say. There are no guarantees with this type of infectious process. We are going to do everything we can. If you want us to."

Sam looks at his hands, and I can see they're shaking. I reach for him, intending to hug him, but he shoots out of the chair.

"Don't…don't follow me. I need…I need some time to think."

Then he's out the door, leaving me alone with the doctors.

"Mr. Singer, there are still things we need to discuss. There are consent forms to be signed, and we need to talk about whether or not Dean has a living will. Are you prepared to do that now? Without Sam?"

I think about it for a moment. Sam's in no condition to hear what they're telling me. 'We'll do all we can, but we need to prepare for the worst.' Sam won't be able to handle this, so I guess it's up to me.

"Ok, let's do this."

* * *

I wander the halls, no idea where I'm going.

All that med speak is spinning around in my head, and all I can take away from it is that Dean's dying. They're going to do everything they can, but Dean's dying.

He's dying.

My brother is dying.

I stumble down another hallway, no idea where I am, but I walk through it, and find myself in a small room with a huge stained glass window taking up the entirety of one wall.

The chapel is non-denominational. The window is a field of lilies, with birds flying in an azure sky. It's someone's idea of a perfect, peaceful day. The room is dim, several candles burning in a rack near the window.

I light one for Dean, not even sure what I'm doing.

There are four pews, two on either side, and I sink wearily into the one all the way in the front, on the left hand side.

I'm so tired. I can't think clearly, all I can hear is Doctor Vanksiver's words. Dean's dying. It's all I can focus on.

I can't do this anymore.

I am so sick of losing everyone I love. I don't want to be the last Winchester standing.

Dean and me? We're supposed to be together to the end. We're supposed to find Yellow Eyes and end that son of a bitch. We're supposed to get revenge for Mom, Dad, and Jess.

We're supposed to…

I don't even know anymore.

Do I pray? Does God even hear us?

I told Dean once I still pray every day. And I do. But it's getting harder and harder to keep my faith when everyone around me is hurting or dying.

So I don't know anymore. Pastor Jim once told me that prayer is good for the soul, whether you believe anyone, or anything, is listening or not.

What the hell…it can't hurt.

"I don't know if you even listen to us anymore, I don't know if you even exist, but if demons are in the world, there has to be good to counterbalance that, right?"

I take a deep breath, drop my head into my hands, try to calm my racing thoughts. My hands are wet, I didn't even realize I was crying again.

"Please help him. Please don't let him die. God, I'm begging you. Please don't take my brother. Please…"

It's all I can get out before I'm sobbing, tears rolling down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away, and I slide off the pew onto my knees.

"Please." I whisper.

"Please don't take Dean."

* * *

_Seriously, co-author credit on this chapter goes to Dr. WifeyMcWiferson for the medical jargon, which she pretty much wrote. So huge props for her, I promise those Oreos and grumpy Angel of Thursday shirt will be coming soon. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews you guys, they keep me motivated!_


	16. Sedated

_Well kiddies, WifeyMcWiferson convinced me to do Camp NaNoWriMo with her, and that starts tomorrow. So except for the word of the week drabbles, this is likely the last chapter on any of my fics until May, 'cause frankly, I ain't WonderWoman. Enjoy, and thanks again for all the reviews. Wish me luck!_

* * *

I find Sam on the floor of the chapel.

He's sitting with his legs straight out, back against the pew. His head is tipped forward, hair in his eyes, hands in his lap.

I sit down in the pew and put a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn't even move. We sit for a while, nothing much to say.

"I want to see him," he murmurs.

"I figured." He ain't going to like this next part. "Doc told me it ain't gonna be like it was upstairs. You can't be in there all the time. Visiting hours are twice a day, two hours each time."

That gets his attention, and he turns to look up at me, back rigid, fury dancing like flames in hazel eyes.

"I'd like to see them keep me out," he growls.

"They'll throw you out, Sam. Don't you get it yet? Dean's critical, taking care of him is their number one priority, and they won't think twice about calling the cops if you get unruly. You really want that? You really want to be dragged out of here by the cops, so they can run your prints, figure out who you are, figure out who _Dean_ is?"

That takes all the fight out of him, and Sam slumps back against the pew.

"No," he says simply, and I can hear the resignation in his voice. He's exhausted, about to fall apart again, and I don't even know what to do with him. I ain't gonna be able to convince him to go home, to get something to eat, to take a shower.

God, and he don't even know what we talked about upstairs. How bad Dean's chances really are.

Basically, his own body is trying to kill him. He's drowning in toxins, and his kidneys and his liver can't handle the load. The dialysis _might _help, it might not make a damn bit of difference. The antibiotics _might_ help, they might further damage his kidneys and liver.

Dean's got youth on his side. That's about it. His chances of survival…well it ain't good.

They wanted me to sign a "Do Not Resuscitate" but I couldn't do it. Not without Sam, because no matter how I feel about the boys, Sam has more claim on Dean than I do, and I have no right to agree to that without Sam's informed consent.

The guilt is eating me alive, I just know if we'd gotten him here sooner, none of this would've happened. Never should have left him in Pittsburg. Should have stayed there with Sam, shoulda…but then again, hindsight's 20/20 ain't it?

At least I got one card up my sleeve. A way to get Sam to eat.

"Sam, they're going to need to get some blood from you. In order to do that, you're gonna have to eat something. And not a salad, something high protein." He nods woodenly, and I know I am not going to get much more out of him until he sees Dean.

"I can take you up to see Dean first if you want."

He nods again, pulls himself to his feet, stretches a bit. His eyes are red, his eyelids puffy, and there are dried tear stains on his cheeks.

I got one in ICU, and one barely hanging on.

It's gonna be a long day, Singer.

* * *

The ICU is different from the fifth floor ward.

It's quiet, none of the hustle and bustle, controlled chaos of the other ward. Everything is orderly, and there's a hush over the whole place. The nurses are quieter here, there's no laughing and being silly like there was at the fifth floor nurse's station.

Bobby and I are met by a nurse that tell us it's not visiting hours right now, so we can only have fifteen minutes with Dean, then they will need us to head to the waiting room until the next session at six p.m.

I want to argue, tell her no way in hell am I leaving his side, but Bobby's right. Police involvement is the last thing Dean needs right now. It's vital that the hospital continue to believe he's Dean Singer.

After all, Dean Winchester died in St. Louis, right?

Then I'm told since his immune system is already compromised, Bobby and I have to 'suit up' before we go in his room. This means gowns, gloves, masks, and caps. So that takes another ten minutes, and we can finally see him.

The nurse leaves us outside of room 202 A, and I take a deep breath. I've seen Dean on life support before, I know what to expect, but still, I am not prepared for how bad he looks.

He's as white as the sheet pulled up to his bare shoulders. One arm lays on top of the sheet, tubes running up the length, delivering the fluids and medicines that will either save him or kill him.

There are new wires running all over his body, and the dreaded blue vent tubes running out of his mouth.

The only sounds in the room are the quiet steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft whoosh of the ventilator.

I sink into the chair Bobby pushes me into, and a powerful wave of exhaustion washes over me. Bobby carefully maneuvers his way through the tubes and the wires, lifts his mask for just a second, and kisses Dean's forehead.

"We're here, boy," he whispers softly, "we're here. You just keep fighting, ya hear me? Just keep fightin'."

I should say something, but the words won't come. I'm so tired, all I really do is just sit and stare until the nurse comes to tell us times up. Bobby pats the hand he's holding, and tells Dean to hold on, and that we'll be back again later.

I follow him silently, and we both strip off the gear outside Dean's room, then I let him lead me to the waiting room.

He pushes me into a couch, and I'm so fried, I lay my head down on the armrest and doze off into a restless sleep.

* * *

Six p.m. seems to take forever to arrive, but at least Sam sleeps almost the entire time.

I rouse him around quarter 'til, and he blinks sleepily at me, I think he's surprised that he fell asleep. He needs it though, and needs a lot more besides. His eyes are still bloodshot, deep circles forming underneath. When visiting hours are over at eight, I am dragging his ass back to my place, and he's going to eat, shower, and sleep if I have to drug his ass.

I go out into the hall, Sam following, and push the button on the intercom, and a nurse buzzes us in. The same one from earlier meets us in the hallway, her arms full of all the gear we have to put on before we can go in Dean's room.

When we're all suited up, Sam pushes Dean's door open.

Nothing's changed, kid's still laying there, pale and still, only now, there's a dialysis machine whirring in the corner, long clear tubes running from his arm to and from the machine, the dark red of his blood traveling through them.

Sam looks at the machine, and I can see the sorrow and weariness in his eyes. He sways slightly, he's exhausted, and I know he hasn't eaten. I have to get him home when we are done here tonight.

He plops into a chair, reaches for Dean's hand, sees the tubes and hesitates, dropping his hand back into his lap. Leaning forward in the chair, he drops his head into his hands and sighs.

"I don't even know what to do here anymore, Bobby. I don't even know what to do."

"Just talk to him. Let him know you're here."

"Don't you get it? This is all my fault."

I walk around the other side of the bed, where Sam is sitting, and rest my hand on his shoulder. I don't know what to say or how to offer comfort because I feel the same way. Only, I think it's _my_ fault. I'm several decades older than Sam. I've been patching up wounded hunters for a long time.

I shoulda seen it. The dizziness, the confusion, the lethargy, the vomiting, the high fever…all the signs were there. I don't know what I was thinking. Sam's so willing to take the blame, to put all of this on his own shoulders, when really, Dean would have died in that garage if Sam hadn't been there.

Sam saved him. Sam brought him home. I'm the one that misread the signs his body was giving us.

My fault.

This is all my fault.

And if this is it, and Dean dies like this, it's all on me.

* * *

Visiting hours end, and Bobby and I stand outside of Dean's room, peeling all of our gear off.

I'm so tired, I just want to curl up in that couch until the next session, but Bobby steers me past the waiting room.

"Where're we going, Bobby?"

"Home," he grunts, "you need a hot meal, a shower, and a real bed." I stop dead in the hall.

"No, I have to stay here! What if he needs me?"

"Visiting hours are two to four and six to eight. They ain't gonna let you be in there otherwise. So you might as well come home with me for now." He doesn't release my arm, and starts pulling me towards the elevators.

I waver, but a sudden wave of dizziness washes over me, and I realize I haven't eaten all day, I've barely slept, and that smell I keep catching whiffs of is most likely me.

"Ok." I follow him without another word.

In the lot, the Impala sits in a circle of street light on the parking lot, black and shiny, everything my brother in one four-wheeled package.

I wonder if he'll ever sit behind the wheel again.

Climbing into the passenger seat, I lean back, exhaustion rushing over me. I am so tired.

When we get back to Bobby's, he sends me up to the shower, and he's right, I definitely needed one, and I stay in there a long time, letting the almost too hot water unknot my back and shoulders.

I wash my hair twice, then soap up and rinse off the rest of me.

Don't bother shaving, don't really feel like it.

I pull on a clean pair of sweats, white socks, a tee, and a hoodie, then head back downstairs.

Something smells wonderful, and Bobby sets a huge plate of spaghetti in front of me, generously sprinkled with parmesan.

"Thanks, Bobby, this looks great."

"Good. Eat the whole plate, they wanna get some blood from you tomorrow." I nod woodenly, and dig in. I surprise myself and eat the whole plateful, and get seconds, and eat all that, too. I had no idea I was that hungry.

Bobby smiles over his own plate.

"Get enough to eat, kiddo?"

"Yes, thank you. You were right, I did need to eat."

"Imagine that," he retorts with a smirk. I smile half-heartedly. "Now git yer ass to bed."

"Ok, ok, I'm going!" I head up the steps, stopping in the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Crawling into the bed, I can feel the tiredness in my bones and I collapse gratefully into the pillows. Bobby was right, this was a good idea. I yawn, feeling like I'm gonna break my jaw.

I snuggle down into the pillows, feeling my body relax. Hell, I might actually sleep.

My thoughts drift off to Dean, and I think about him lying in that bed, pale and still, sedated with a tube in his throat, and I feel the guilt bubble up again. I shouldn't be here, laying in bed, I should be at the hospital. I sit straight up.

I have to get dressed, I have to get back there, what if something happens? I need to be there, I can sleep on the couch there just as easily as I could here.

I have to get up, have to get dressed…I yawn again, I'm so tired…did Bobby drug me? He wouldn't…would he? Crap, I think he did. So tired.

Flopping back into the pillows, I feel it wash up over me. He did. Bobby friggin' drugged me.

Gonna kick his ass…

I'm totally…gonna…

Sleep.

* * *

_Hang in there guys, I'll be back to finish this, Picture Perfect, Battle Across the Pond, and Winchester Brothers Racing soon. Hugs and demon bombs kiddies, feel free to come find me on tumblr, at .com. _


	17. Kashmir

_Guess who's back? Don't ask me about NaNoWriMo. It was an epic fail, although I do intend to continue with my story, the first four chapters of which are posted on here (even though they shouldn't be) as Man in the Wilderness. _

_Anyway, here's some lovely new Lost and Found. I know I have been the pits about thanking everyone for reviews lately, but I will get to you all, I promise. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I struggled with it, and I think I am pleased...anyway. Enjoy!_

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, the first thing I think is that I fully intend to kick Bobby's ass for drugging me.

The second thing is, I want another shower. Might even shave this time. Most importantly, I'm going to get my ass back to the hospital and try to convince the nurses to let me be in Dean's room beyond the visiting hours.

I woke up feeling very optimistic this morning. I have this idea that if I could just sit in there and talk to him, let him hear my voice, maybe it will be enough for him to latch on to, give him something to fight for. I know he's giving up. I know that's what he was apologizing for. I need to get in there, I need to talk to him, give him something to focus on so he can yank himself out of this.

There is no way on Earth I am prepared to lose my brother. Not after everything that's happened. Not after Jess. Not after Dad.

I get my shower, shave, and get dressed, then head downstairs to confront the curmudgeon who drugged me. Bobby's standing near the kitchen counter, and he turns around and holds a coffee cup out to me, a smug look on his face.

"Sleep well?" he asks genially, and I try for a glare as I take the coffee.

"I can't believe you drugged me."

"Who said I drugged you?" I raise an eyebrow. "Ok, well you needed the sleep, and you're a stubborn punk, so yeah, I mixed a crushed-up Ambien in with your parmesan. Sue me." I shake my head, but can't help the grin on my face.

"You're real damn proud of yourself, aren't you Bobby?"

"Yeah, pretty much." He grins, and we both chuckle. "Now sit your ass down, I made pancakes. Drug-free even."

"Thanks. After I'm done, I need to do something with my laptop then I want to get back down to the hospital. I'm going to talk to the staff about letting me be in there more. Don't worry, I'll be polite." Bobby sighs as he sets a plate of pancakes in front of me.

"Sam, they're not going to make an exception. Dr. Hammonds told me that normally they don't enforce those hours, but they are in his case because Dean is at such a high risk for any type of infection. It's not a slight on you, believe me. Even the nurses minimize how much contact they have with him."

"See? That's exactly my point. He's in there, pretty much alone, he's not hearing any familiar voices, no one's touching him and letting him know there's someone with him. Would you fight, if you thought you'd been left alone and no one cared? Dean already thinks he's not good for anything beyond looking out for me, you really think he's going to fight to survive for his own sake? No, I need to be in there, he needs to hear my voice, he needs something to fight for." I spear a chunk of pancake and shove it in my mouth.

"Guess it don't hurt to ask, but don't get your hopes up boy. We still get four hours a day to talk to him and encourage him to fight."

"It's not enough."

"It might have to be."

I shake my head, and keep eating my pancakes. I don't want to argue with Bobby, but I am still going to ask. It can't hurt, the most they can do is say no. And I won't push to the point where it becomes a 'calling the cops' issue.

"So when do you want to leave?"

"I need an hour or so, I want to do some stuff with my laptop. I'll let you know when I'm ready?"

"Ok. What are you doing?"

"I'm going to update my iPod with music Dean likes. I thought I could put earphones on him, and leave it on his pillow. That way, he's not in total silence when we aren't there." Bobby nods.

"That's a great idea. He'd like that."

"Yeah, as long as I don't put any of my "_emo garbage_" on it." Bobby snorts, and pours himself another cup of coffee, refilling mine as well.

"And I can just hear him saying that, too. Well, kid, I'll hop in the shower, then we'll get going." He heads for the stairs.

"Sounds good." I finish my breakfast, then clean up behind myself. After, I grab my laptop and my iPod and get to work.

* * *

We get to the hospital around noon, let the ICU staff know we're there.

Sam is in a much better mood then he was last night. He's regained some of his optimism, he's got a full belly, and he's had a full night's sleep. He's smiling, and pleasant, and downright excited about the iPod full of hair band noise hiding in his pocket.

He's asked to speak with the staff assigned to Dean, and as the time rolls by, Sam starts to lose his sunny attitude, and his frustration starts to show on his face.

It's well after one before Dr. Hammonds finally calls us back, and before Sam can present his case, he tells us that Dean's developing pneumonia now as well. A chest X-ray preformed earlier that day confirmed fluid in the lower portion of his right lung.

Sam's whole face falls, and I watch him struggle for control.

This means more antibiotics, different ones designed to combat something like pneumonia, and he's on so much as it is, and he's still fighting the septicemia, he still needs dialysis.

Dr. Hammonds gently reminds us that Dean's chances aren't that great to begin with, and something like developing pneumonia could indeed kill him.

Sam takes it in, blinks hard several times, but stays in control.

"Dr. Hammonds, I wanted to ask about the visiting hours. Is there any way I could be in there more? I really think it would help if he could hear my voice. If he knew he wasn't alone, he might feel like he had something to fight for." Sam's the very picture of youthful determination, his face bright and open. He believes beyond the shadow of a doubt that he's right about this, and he leans forward on his elbows, waiting for an answer.

"I will let you have from two to eight, but I can't have you in there nonstop. It's not safe for Dean right now, and it will leave him exposed to pathogens that could literally kill him. And you'll still need to suit up. If you leave the room for any reason during those hours, you will need to put on fresh gear before returning. Sam, I'm not trying to be hard on you, but you've charged me with saving Dean's life. I'm asking you to let me continue to do that." The doc pushes his wire frames back onto his face as he carefully studies Sam's face. "Do we have a deal?"

Sam looks like he wants to argue, his face slightly stormy, but after a moment, he sighs, and nods his head.

"Yeah, we have a deal. Thank you for giving me those two extra hours."

"Of course." The doc checks his watch. "And it's after two now, so you and your Dad can go ahead and get suited up and head in to see Dean. I'll talk to you later, ok?"

"Sounds good, thank you Doctor," I say as I extend a hand, which he shakes as he stands.

"No problem, Mr. Singer." He exits the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

"You ok with this, Sam?"

"Guess I have to be. At least I managed to get two extra hours." He tries for a smile, but it comes out looking more like a grimace. "Let's go suit up, _Dad."_ I smirk.

"You got it, _Son._" We both sort of chuckle at that, then head out of the room to go see Dean.

* * *

A little while later, I'm sitting at Dean's bedside, his right hand in mind.

I talk about everything I can think of, cars, sports, current events, funny stories from when we were younger, hunts gone comically awry, anything. Bobby chips in with this own stories from when we were kids, some of which I've never even heard before.

We spend the time laughing and telling silly stories, and its eight o'clock before I'm even the least bit ready.

I pull the iPod out of my pocket, and the brand new earbuds we picked up on the way to the hospital. I clean the earphones with an alcohol swab. I switch on the iPod, then check it to make sure it's on the lowest volume setting.

I've loaded the entire catalogs of Led Zeppelin, Metallica, Boston, Styx, Pink Floyd, Blue Oyster Cult, Def Leppard, ZZ Top, AC/DC, Ozzy, and anything else I could think of. I scroll thru all the new songs until I find Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir".

"Dean, I have to leave now," I tell him softly, "but I put all your favorite music on my iPod so you can listen to it while I'm gone. You need to hurry up and get better so you can listen to all this stuff in the Impala." I feel a flood of emotion rush through me, and I swallow the lump in my throat. "Look, Dean, you have to get better, ok? You have to keep fighting. I need you man. Please keep fighting."

I carefully put the earbuds in his ears, and plug them into the iPod, and push play. Leaning over him, I kiss his forehead.

"I'll be back, Dean, please, just keep fighting, just keep fighting for me."

* * *

Sometimes, it's right there.

That weird tingly feeling on the back of your neck, that odd thought that someone's watching you.

It's been happening to me since I was a kid, sometimes when there was danger, I'd get that weird buzz on my neck. Sometimes it would happen in the middle of hunt. Chips are down, I'm sure I am going to die, and I don't know how, but the thing I'm hunting will pause, or slow, or in general screw up and I'd get the drop on it.

Or sometimes, I'm in a crowded place, and I'll see someone, no one I recognize, but the weight of their stare…it unnerves me, and I'll blink, and they're gone.

It happened in the mine. I was done. I could feel it, and there was just this…presence and the next thing I knew, I was pulling myself out of there. Hurt, but not badly. Not like I thought I'd been. Not like I should have been, judging by the blood on the ground.

Then the trucker showed up, took me to Pittsburg.

I woke up in the alley behind Reggie's, no idea who I was or where I'd come from. Reggie, rest in peace, took me in. Always said he felt like it was just something he was supposed to do.

A few days later, I was working in the garage, and there was this guy standing across the street. Non-descript, just a dude, but the way he was staring at me…I swear he could see inside me or something.

He tilted his head slightly, then I blinked, and he was gone.

I feel it now. I don't know where I am, the air smells musty, and I can hear dripping water from somewhere nearby. It's dark, and dank, and I'm a little freaked.

Ok, I'm a lot freaked.

I stand, look around, try to get my bearings.

_You must move forward._

The voice makes me jump, and I whip around, look for the source, but there is no one there. I hear a low growl somewhere in the darkness, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

_Take up your weapon._

What weapon? What the hell?

There's music now, I can just make it out, and it's familiar, very familiar.

_Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars fill my dreams_

_I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been_

Led Zeppelin? Weird. Am I dreaming? I have to be dreaming, 'cause even with all the shit I've seen, this is pretty high on the weird spectrum.

I take two steps forward, and practically trip over a sword. Bewildered, I pick it up as the song continues.

_To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen_

_They talk of days for which they sit and wait, all will be revealed_

I reach down and pick up the sword as the growling gets louder.

Whatever this is, where ever I am, I'm not getting out of here without a fight. As the music swells, I feel that presence again, and it's encouraging me without saying a word, and I move forward, a grin on my face, itching for a fight.

Bring it on fugly, bring it on.

* * *

_*I do not own the music or lyrics to Led Zeppelin's Kashmir. No copyright infringement of any kind intended*_


	18. Playlist

_Dudes, I've been the worst about responding to your reviews. So from here, I'm thanking you all, thank you very much, and moving forward, I'll be going back to thanking you all individually. Also, please go check out my new Chef Dean Blog at thehuntershob dot tumblr dot com. (just replace the word dot with actual dots.) Enjoy! And thanks for reading. Love you guys!_

* * *

Holy shit! What the hell, that's a fucking giant ass rawhead, and this piece of shit sword is not going to help!

I need a Taser! A big ass, 1.21 gigawatts Taser! Doc Brown, help me out here!

The damn thing takes a swing at me, and I raise the sword to block its fist, and he snaps the fucker in half. Fuck, that thing's mad at me now.

Diving out of the way, my hands scrabble around on the ground, looking for something, anything, to defend myself.

AC/DC echoes through the stone passageways.

_Concrete shoes, cyanide, TNT, done dirt cheap!_

_Neck ties, contracts, high voltage! Done dirt cheap!_

I feel the plastic in my hand, and grab the Taser. I don't even check the setting. Somehow, I just know that it's already at the highest setting.

_Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap!_

_Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap!_

Pulling the trigger, I watch the leads streak out of the Taser, hitting the fugly right in the chest. A shower of blue sparks, and the thing's body goes completely stiff. It wavers for a moment, then falls forward, right towards me. I dive out of the way just in time, and the dead rawhead crashes to the ground and doesn't move.

I lean back against the stone wall, panting, letting the spent Taser slip from my fingers.

This has been one hell of a night. I'm 90% sure I'm dreaming. I seem to be in some sort of stone maze. I can't see the tops of the walls, and there's no visible ceiling, just starless black. The ground is squishy and mossy in some places, hard and sandy in others. There's almost no light, just a dim glow that doesn't seem to be coming from anywhere in particular.

So yeah, I'm 90% sure I'm dreaming. But it's one hell of a strange dream.

I'm hunting, and the monsters I've fought so far reacted to the weapons needed to bring them down, but they're bigger here. I mean, trolls aren't small, but the one I tackled seemed to be twice its normal height. I had to hack at it's ankles with an iron sword until the thing finally hit the ground and I could take it's head off.

Then that rawhead was at least eight feet tall. Normally, they're about the size of an average man.

And where the hell are the weapons coming from? And the music? And that voice in the back of my head that keeps telling me to move forward?

Another song echoes through the passageways, hard drums and screaming guitars.

_Say your prayers little one, don't forget,_

_My son to include everyone_

_Tuck you in, warm within, keep you free from sin_

_Till the sandman he comes_

It's friggin' bizarre, the music that's playing. So far, there's been Zep, AC/DC, and now Metallica. This place has a good soundtrack at any rate, although if I am dreaming, it's all in my head, which would make sense, because this is my music. This is the stuff I play over and over and over again in my baby until Sam's ready to scream or throw my tapes out the window or both.

_Continue moving forward. It's not wise to stay in one place._

"Whatever the hell that means!" I yell into the empty air. Mr. Invisible's really starting to really piss me off.

_Sleep with one eye open_

_Gripping your pillow tight_

I can't help myself, I start singing along as I start walking down the corridors. I mean seriously, I love this song.

_Exit light_

_Enter night_

_Take my hand_

_Off to never never land!_

It's when I go all Kirk Hammett on the air guitar that something black and furry gets me from behind.

* * *

Another morning, another shower, another cup of coffee, and Bobby and I sit around staring at each other until noon.

I tried. I really did, I was going to stay at the house until 1:30, then leave, putting us at the hospital by 2:00. I was just way too restless and finally grabbed the keys and told Bobby I was leaving. He's going to come down later though. Some other hunter needs his help, and he had research to do.

So now, I'm pacing the ICU waiting room, checking my watch every ten seconds, waiting for 2:00. It takes me exactly ten strides to cross the wall the window is on. Ten steps one way, turn, ten steps the other way.

I wonder if they let him keep the iPod all night. I wonder if it helped.

"Boy, sit down already. You're making my feet hurt just watching you."

I turn in surprise. There's an elderly lady sitting on the couch near the door, white hair in a bun, knitting needles and yarn in her lap. Her project is dangling towards the floor, a mass of yellow, blue, and white threads. Looks like some kind of blanket.

Sighing, I flop into a chair near the couch, and try for a smile.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to bother you."

"Oh, you're no bother sweetie. You're just getting yourself all worked up, and you want to be calm when you head in there to see your person. Right?" She smiles at me, blue eyes sparkling over cat's eye glasses. "I've seen you here a lot this week. Is your person getting any better?"

"My brother, my older brother. He's not doing…he'll be fine. He has to be." She clucks her tongue.

"I've seen him. He's in the room next to my George. Far too young to be in here. This is where old people come to die." Sighing, she makes another run of stiches with the needles, and I watch for a moment, fascinated.

"My name's Sam, by the way. My brother's Dean."

"Nice names for boys. My name's Eleanor. Is Dean a fighter, Sam?"

"Oh yeah…he's definitely a fighter."

"Good," she smiles up at me, "he'll be fine, and you'll be taking him home in no time." Eleanor goes back to her knitting, and I sit and watch the clock tick.

"I hope you're right," I whisper.

* * *

"Grrghh, get off me…you…damn…fugly!"

It's a dog. A black dog. A motherfucking humongous furry smelly drooling black dog.

It's not a hellhound. Can't see hellhounds.

Pretty sure it's a skinwalker. I need silver ASAP. I roll away from the thing, hands searching the floor in the dark. There's got to be a weapon here somewhere.

My hand brushes against something cool and metallic, and I grab for it, but the dog jumps me again, and I grapple with the damn thing. It's doing it's damndest to bite me. Getting my hands around its scruffy neck, I push hard, trying to unseat the thing. Its jaws drip drool all over my face.

"UGH! Gross, gross, gross! Get off me! You…smelly…sonuvabitch!" I shove him off of me, squirming away and heading back for the weapon I felt a minute before.

_Red hot mama_

_Velvet charmer_

_Times come to pay your dues_

My hand finds the silver, and thank god, it's one hell of a sharp knife, and I snatch it and drive it upward into the beast's chest, then yank it down and twist the blade, just to make sure the bitch is dead.

_Now you're messin' with a_

_A son of a bitch_

_Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch_

The skinwalker's dead, and it's turned back into a non-descript human. I sit up, and the damned thing's blood is everywhere. I can't help but laugh at the music.

"Hair of the Dog? Really?" I yell at the ceiling. This is getting old. I'm tired already, and I really need to rest. Maybe I could just lean up against the wall here. Ten minutes. Ten minutes won't kill me, right?

The music abruptly stops, and I hear my name. I don't know where it's coming from. It almost sounds like…

Sam?

* * *

I carefully pull the earphones out, and shut the iPod off.

"I'm back, Dean. Hope you had a good night. Doc says you're starting to respond to the antibiotics. You're going to get better. I know you are." I gently squeeze his hand.

The dialysis machine is in the corner, whirring and clicking away as Dean's blood travels through the lines and into the machine and back again. It's very disturbing to me to see his blood on the outside of his body like that. He's still so pale, and now he's starting to show a bit of weight loss in his face.

It's been five days. Five long, aggravating days, and even with the improvement, and the fact that his body is starting to respond to the drugs, we still have such a long way to go.

It's still going to be nothing short of a miracle if he lives through this.

I wonder what he's thinking, if he's dreaming, or if he can hear me. I've been rattling on about anything and everything, just making sure my voice is filling the room. I'm hoping he can hear me in there, and that he's focusing on me, and the sound of my words. I'm hoping he can use them like a life line to pull himself out.

His door opens, and a familiar set of eyes smile at me over a mask.

"Hi, Sam. Mind if I come in?" I return the smile through my own mask, and Dr. Vanskiver pushes the door open and comes into the room. She's as suited up as I am, but she shakes my hand anyway.

"Good to see you."

"You too. Been wanted to come up and check on Dean, but we've been busy downstairs. Just looked at his chart. He's looking better, believe it or not."

"I know, Doc Hammonds told me that too."

"Have you been taking care of yourself? Eating, getting enough sleep?" I blush a little, jeez people get to know me way too fast.

"Yeah, Bob…my dad, he's been making me eat and sleep. He's looking after me."

"Good." She goes over to Dean then, and pulls out her penlight. She checks his eyes, then checks his pulse. She briefly studies his monitors. "He really is doing better. I know it's hard to see right now, with all the machines, and how he looks, and," she nods towards the dialysis machine, "this thing in the corner, but his vitals have been more steady and consistent in the last twenty-four than they have been the whole time he's been here. Dean's temperature is still towards the high side, but it's holding, not fluctuating. His BP is better, although still low. He's improving, Sam, I swear it."

"I know…it's just so damn hard…" my voice catches. Sometimes I forget how serious this whole thing has been, how critical Dean's condition is, and the emotions just swoop up and overwhelm me. Dr. Vanskiver walks back over to where I am sitting and puts her hand on my shoulder.

"I wish I could tell you it's going to be ok, that everything's going to be fine, but the truth is," she sighs heavily, "I can't. And, god Sam, I wish I could. I'd give a lot to make this better for you." I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and she gives me a brief hug. "I'll be back later, ok?" I nod again, and she leaves the room.

"You have to get better, Dean. You have to." I lean back in the chair, feeling drained.

There's got to be light at the end of this tunnel.

* * *

I hear a growl. Its low, and deep, and it's way too close for comfort.

I was drifting, not really asleep, floating on the wave of Sam's voice. I couldn't make out the words, but I could hear him. He's gone now, and I can hear the music again. Is that…Warren Zevon?

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I'm on my feet in an instant, looking all around me, alert and wary.

You know what Warren Zevon sings?

Werewolves of motherfucking London! And just as I think it, the damn thing's on me, slamming me down to the ground. It's holding me down, teeth bared in an angry snarl.

_Ya hear him howlin' around your kitchen door_

_Ya better not let him in_

_Little old lady got mutilated late last night_

_Werewolves of London again_

This is not funny. The music, and the damn werewolf. I need silver, damn, wish I'd held onto that knife. If I get out of this, I'm keeping every weapon I find from this point on!

_Aaahoo! Werewolves of London_

_Aaahoo!_

_Aaahoo! Werewolves of London_

_Aaahoo!_

I wrap my legs around the thing's waist, still pushing its jaws away from my face.

"You're going down fucker!" I yell, and twist my hips and flip it over onto it back. I drive a right hook into its face, but all that does is piss it off more. Judging by previous experience, I know there's got to be a weapon here somewhere, I just have to…

There!

I see it from across the room, a sight as welcome as the Impala. My gorgeous, perfect, shiny, pearl-handled Colt 1911, right there waiting for me and I just have to get to her. I twist myself off the werewolf and dive across the floor to the gun, scooping it up, flicking the safety off.

There's no time to check for silver bullets.

The werewolf's up on it's haunches now, and eyeing me like I'm a tasty bacon cheeseburger with extra onions. I bring the gun up and aim, just as it charges.

I fire, and the bullet hits the werewolf right between the eyes. It's enough to stop it dead, but I have to put one in the heart to finish the job, and the damn thing knows it too, and resumes the charge.

I aim, hope for the best and fire, and the thing dies howling.

Slumping back against the stone wall, I do my best to catch my breath.

This is getting really old, really fast.

* * *

_*Songs featured in this chapter, Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap) by AC/DC, Enter Sandman by Metallica, Hair of the Dog by Nazareth, and Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon. I do not own the music or lyrics in any way, no copyright infringement intended.*_


	19. Improvement

_Guys, I am the worst about the reviews, but I have an excuse. I've been busting ass to wrap this up for you, plus working hard on The Hunter's Hob. I've gotten and read every last review, and I'm so freakin' grateful. You guys make me want to write more. Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart. Especially to my regulars, those of you who've been here since chapter 1. Love you all so much. _

_Second to last chapter, and we'll be putting Lost and Found to bed. WifeyMcwiferson loves this one. Hope you guys do too. _

_Thanks so very very much._

* * *

Two days later, and things are really looking up.

Dean's temperature has dropped, they've pulled the vent and stopped the dialysis. Unfortunately, even though they've stopped the sedation, he doesn't seem to want to wake up. So that's definitely a concern, although the docs feel like it's nothing to be concerned about. Doesn't stop me from worrying.

At least he's being moved back upstairs, to a regular room, and not in the ICU. He's even sporting a new blanket. Mrs. Headley, Eleanor, finished it yesterday and insisted I give it to Dean. Sadly, her husband passed away early this morning, and when she saw me in the hall, she gave me the blanket and a hug and told me to take care of myself.

Bobby's downstairs, getting us both some coffee. No more masks and scrubs, and sitting next to my brother is a lot easier without all the wires and tubes running everywhere. He's looking better too, even with the weight loss making his face look thinner, but he's not as pale now, and I can see his eyes moving beneath his lids.

I still keep the iPod on him at night, because Bobby still makes me come home and sleep, so I want him to have that background noise.

Dr. Vanskiver pops her head in and smiles.

"Time to move, boys. Back up to my ward." She's happy, a genuine smile on her face, and I know she's truly glad to be seeing Dean recovering. She took a personal interest in his case right from the beginning, and I can't say enough about how good his care has been here.

"I'm ready," I say with a smile, and stand and gather Dean's few belongings. Two men come in, and make some adjustments to the bed, and then roll Dean out into the hallway.

Bobby's there, and hands me a cup of coffee.

"Looks like I'm just in time for the parade."

"Yup, another minute, and you've have missed in entirely."

"Story of my life."

We smile at each other, then cram into the elevator with Dean and everyone else.

"I am so incredibly pleased with Dean's recovery," Dr. Vanskiver says cheerfully. "He's doing so well, and I'm sure he's going to wake very soon. It's amazing, really, considering how seriously ill he was. Dean must have one hell of an angel on his shoulder."

"Our mom always told him angels were watching over him, so maybe that's true."

We get to the fifth floor, and Dean's wheeled into a spacious, sunny room. There's a couch in this one, and an easy chair. The men get the bed settled, and the male nurse from before, Stu, and another nurse, Lena, busy themselves with straightening out Dean's IV lines and getting him settled in.

Stu runs his vitals and makes notations on his chart, while Dr. Vanskiver checks his eyes again.

"Hmm, he flinched that time. He's trying to wake up Sam, I'm sure of it." She grins, and I grin right back.

Looks like it's going to be a great day.

* * *

I'm drifting again, not awake, not really asleep.

Can you fall asleep in a dream? I don't know. That would be kind of weird I guess. A bright light fills the stone corridors and I flinch back from it, shading my eyes with my arm.

"Oh come on! What the hell?" The brightness fades away, my eyes adjusting to the dim light after a moment.

"Hey, Mr. Invisible," I call into the darkness, "you here?"

_Yes, Dean, I'm here. Are you ready to continue your journey?_

"Yeah, I guess. So what's your name, anyway?"

_That's not important. It's time, Dean._

"Don't change the subject. You're in my head, like a weird ass conscience or something, so I think I at least have a right to your name. And time for what?"

_My name is not important. I'm here to guide you, as I've told you before. It's time for you to leave this place._

"Well since you're in my head, and acting like my conscience, I think I'll just call you Jiminy Cricket." I pull myself to my feet. "And I am more than ready to get the hell out of here."

_I do not understand that reference._

"What? The cricket? Never seen Pinocchio huh? It's about a puppet that wants to be a real boy, and the Blue Fairy grants his wish. She assigns this little cricket dude in a top hat to be sawdust-brain's scruples. Hence the Jiminy Cricket reference."

_Ah. You were being humorous._

"Yeah…anyway…" We've reached a stone crossroads. I look around, checking down each of the various passageways, but there's no clue as to which way to go. At least I don't have to worry about the monsters. It seems like once the music shuts off, the hunts go away. And that's a damn good thing, because I'm wiped. I just want to get out here, wherever "here" is. "Which way, Jiminy?"

_Forward. _

"Forward, imagine that. Pretty much what you've been saying this whole damn time." Crossing the hallway, I enter the corridor directly across from me. I can hear a voice echoing in the hall. Sounds like Sam again, but there's another one I don't recognize.

"Hey, Jiminy, am I hearing Sam for real? Or is that just my screwed up head?"

_You are hearing Sam's voice. He's waiting for you._

"Waiting for me where? You think you could be a little less cryptic?"

_You're unconscious, and your body is lying in a hospital bed. Sam's waiting for you to regain consciousness. _

"So all this monster hunting, that's all been imaginary? A dream?"

_Yes. You were close to death. You needed time to heal._

I mull this over for a moment, as we come to the base of a set of stairs. I look up, to see how far they go, but I can't see the top.

"None of this makes sense. And this is the single weirdest fucking dream I've ever had."

_I'm sorry. I needed time. You were very ill, and I had to heal you very slowly._

"So I healed myself right? 'Cause you're just in my head? Or are you something more?"

_It's not important. It's time for you to leave here, Dean. Climb the stairs, go through the door at the top and find your brother._

"No. First you show yourself. I'm not leaving until I know who and what you are. Because I'm damn sure you're more than some voice in my head. Show yourself!"

_Why must you be so stubborn? Every time I ask you to just do something, accept something, there's always an argument!_

Out of the corner of my eye, just for a second, I think I see something. A flash, a flicker, something substantial in the dimness of the stone hallway.

"Pissed you off, huh? Got under your skin?"

_Why can't you just accept what I am telling you and go? _

"I'm kind of an ass like that."

_Fine. Fine. We'll do things your way then, since clearly, you have no intention of leaving here until you get your way._

"Damn straight." The hallway shimmers again, and there's a man standing in front of me. He's in a blue suit, and a ratty old trench coat, with a tie on backwards. He looks like a tax accountant. But his eyes...

"Who are you?" He sighs, clearly frustrated with me, and narrows his eyes.

"My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord."

* * *

Dean's all settled in, but he still seems no closer to waking up.

Sam's about to lose his voice. He's been talking to Dean nonstop, about the most mundane topics. For the last hour, he's been reading articles out of Super Chevy. It's kind of funny to hear a kid who doesn't know the difference between a gas cap and a hub cap talk seriously about four barrel carburetors and cam shafts.

Doc says Dean may be having trouble waking up because of the whole subdural hematoma thing. But all the other tests show that the organ failure has been completely reversed. She's saying she's never seen anything like it.

If I didn't know better, and hadn't had Sam in my sights at pretty much all times, I would be worried. But then again, Dean is one hell of a tough kid. And for once, his determination to look after Sam may have helped him. It's probably what he used as a motivation for getting better. I've seen a lot of weirdness in my day, and it wouldn't be the first time someone mind over mattered themselves back into good health.

Not to mention, he's a damn Winchester. Stubborn is a way of life for that family. Time for Sam to take a break. He leans back in the chair, and chugs down a glass of water. I stand and walk over and pat his shoulder.

"Oughta get something to eat, boy. A sandwich or something? I can sit here and talk to him for a while." Sam looks surprised, like he'd forgotten I was there. His stomach growls, and he smiles sheepishly at me.

"Yeah. Probably should do that." He stands and stretches his arms over his head, and I swear he's about seven feet tall when he does that. He leans over Dean and whispers "I'll be back dude," in his ear, then heads out.

Pulling the chair closer to Dean's bedside, I sit down and reach for his hand.

"Ok, listen up kiddo. Docs say you're doing a lot better. Almost miraculously better. So I think it's about time you quit tormenting your brother and opened your damn eyes."

His eyes twitch under the lids, but they don't open.

"Come on, Dean, it's time to wake up."

* * *

"An angel of the Lord? Sure. Yeah, that makes perfect sense."

I roll my eyes, and turn away from Mr. Trench Coat.

"You don't look very angelic to me."

"This body is a vessel."

"Wait? You're _possessing_ some dude? That makes you not much better than a demon!" He sighs angrily, mutters something about things never changing.

"Dean, it's ok. It's different with angels. We have to be given permission. My true form is unsuitable for your eyes."

"So what form is this? Holy tax accountant?" I swear he smiled for a moment.

"That's the second time you've asked me that."

"No it isn't. I've never even met you before. And for all I know, this is just one crazy ass hallucination caused by whatever they've got me doped up on out there, because angels _do not_ exist. I'm sure of that!" I cross my arms, and do my best to look intimidating.

Castiel closes his eyes and looks down at that floor. There's a sudden wind ripping through the corridor, and thunder and flashes of lightening. He looks up at me, his eyes glowing with bright white light, and in the flashes of lightening, I can just make out the shape of a gigantic set of wings, or at the least the shadows of wings where there is actually only empty space.

The storm stops as suddenly as it began, and he stares at me, and any sense I had of being intimidating is thrown out the window. I'm not intimidating. This guy _invented_ intimidating.

"Ok then," I murmur. "Maybe you're for real. But I know I've never met you before." I stop and think for a moment. "But I don't think this is the first time you've been near me."

"No, it isn't. I've been watching you, watching over you, for some time."

"Was that you in the mine? Did you heal me then too? And if it was, why didn't you fix the amnesia, or save Reggie from those demons? Why would you only fix some of the problems but not all of them? I don't understand!"

"There are things in motion I can't begin to explain to you, Dean. I wish I could…so many things I could prevent, so much pain I could save you. But I can't interfere with the timeline that much. I know it doesn't make sense, and I know I'm making you angry, but someday…" he trails off, and just stares at me, like there's so much more he wants to say.

"It's time to go, Dean. Climb the stairs and open the door. Sam's waiting for you on the other side."

"No, I want to know…Cas, please, I need to know what you're talking about!" Cas? I'm giving him a nickname already?

"No, Dean, you don't," he says, with something like regret in his eyes. He reaches out with two fingers and touches my forehead.

"Forget all of this, my friend. Forget it all."


	20. Ramble On

_So, here we are. The final chapter. I'm pleased with it, and I hope you will be too. By far, this is the longest fic I've ever written. And to think, I almost gave up on it. _

_The thanks go to WifeyMcWiferson. She's been by my side almost the entire way, she's the one that DEMANDED I continue when I lost my way around Chapter 4, she's the one responsible for the validity of the medical info. _

_Special thanks go to my awesome reviewers, every last one of you, especially MB64, who also stayed on my ass about getting it done._

_So here we go, the final chapter of Lost and Found. Hugs, kisses, and demon bombs!_

* * *

I feel like I'm surfacing from deep water, and I breathe in hard, forcing air into my lungs.

My eyelids are heavy, and it's taking a lot of effort to open them.

"Dean? Dean, are you waking up? Come on man, open your eyes, god, please open your eyes."

Sammy? I'm trying man, I swear I am.

"Come on kiddo, we're waiting for you."

Bobby's here too? Guess I better get on it. Dammit. Open up stupid eyelids!

"Bobby, he's doing it, he's waking up!" I finally get them open, and everything's blurry. I blink a few times, and the world comes into focus. Sammy's smiling down at me, grinning, and his eyes are watery, like he's about to cry, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Don…don't…cry…Samantha." He chuckles, and wipes at his eyes with one hand. The other is holding mine. I pretend not to notice.

"Welcome back, Dean. I'm so…god. I was so worried. I was so damn worried." He takes a shaky breath.

"S'ok, Sammy. I'm ok." And now he's rubbing his hand through my hair. "Sam. No chick flick moments, dude, I'm fine." And that's the weird thing. I really am. Fine, that is. Bobby chuckles.

"Now that's our Dean." Even Sam has to smile at that. I make like I'm going to sit up, and Sam puts his gigantor paws on me and pushes me back down.

"Dean! You've been out for like a week. You almost died, give it some time." I shove him off, and I can tell he's surprised by my strength.

"I'm fine," I tell him as I sit up. "There's nothing wrong with me. Why am I even here?" Sam and Bobby exchange a look. "What? What's going on?"

"Gonna go get the doctor," Bobby mumbles, quickly excusing himself from the room. Sam's staring at me.

"What?"

"Nothing…just." He sighs. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Um. Hit my head on a toilet at Bobby's."

"And now you're fine. I don't get it." Sam drops into a chair, confusion all over him.

"It was just a concussion, right? I know I hit my head pretty hard, and I felt like I had the flu or something."

"The flu?" Sam asks incredulously, "dude, your appendix ruptured, and you didn't just have a concussion. You almost died, Dean, I mean, we really thought we were going to lose you. It was touch and go for a while there. Then, two days ago, you just started getting better. The doctors are clueless."

"I almost died? Damn, how bad was it?"

"Subdural hematoma, which basically means you had bleeding in your brain. It made you have seizures, bad ones. And then your appendix ruptured, you were bleeding internally, and they barely got you into surgery in time, and then if that wasn't enough, you went into septic shock. I mean, your kidneys, your liver, everything just stopped working. They had to put you on dialysis and all these antibiotics, they gave you transfusions, and it's like nothing they did was working. You even started to develop pneumonia. And then, two days ago, it was like somebody flipped a switch, and you just started getting better."

I don't remember any of this. None of it. And I tell Sam that.

"I'm not surprised you don't remember, you were so sick, Dean. They had to drill into your head to let the pressure of the extra fluid out. Then, your heart stopped." Sam sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "It's been scary, Dean. I was so scared."

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

"No. Don't you dare apologize. None of this is your fault. Don't you sit there and try to take the guilt for this. It's my fault, I should have done things differently in Pittsburg, I should have told you I was there right from the beginning."

"Yeah, well I should have come back with you and Bobby. Then maybe Reggie would still be alive. Maybe none of this would have happened."

"No. Stop it. Stop trying to put all of this on you. All three of us, you, me, Bobby…we all made mistakes. We all could have done things differently. But, dammit, Dean, of the three of us, you're by far the least to blame." I fall silent, and so does he. I mess with the blanket on my bed, pulling on the blue and yellow fringe.

"Dean?" Sam asks quietly, "how did you get out of that mine?"

"I don't…I'm not sure. I know I was hurt, and I _shouldn't_ have gotten out of there, but I did. A trucker found me. I ended up in Pittsburg with nothing, no memories, just that license with 'Dean Hetfield' on it. Reggie took me in. That's all I know."

"I pulled myself out," Sam says, "and I've lost everything that happened from the time I woke up in the mine to when I ended up at the hospital." He stares out the window, a faraway look on his face. "For almost five months, I believed you were dead. Bobby and I made a memorial under that big oak and everything. I thought you were gone, and I thought I was never going to be ok. It took a long time, but I slowly started feeling human again. I owe Bobby so much. He never gave up on me, even when I was ready to give up on myself."

"Yeah. He's good like that." Sam nods in agreement.

"Bobby and I went back, you know, we went back to try and find your body." He gives me a wry grin. "Obviously, you weren't there."

"Obviously."

"But we found your gun, and the crispy Wendigo…"

"Good to know."

"…and we found this." He reaches under his shirt collar, and pulls out a leather cord, quickly sliding it up and over his head. "I think it's time you had it back. I actually meant to give it back to you sooner. It just didn't happen that way."

He holds it out to me, and I take it from him, the brass weight comfortingly warm from being against Sam's skin. I'd recognize my amulet anywhere, and I carefully put it on, relishing the feel of it against my chest.

"Thanks, Sammy," I murmur, feeling my eyes mist up. Probably should stop accusing him of being a girl. I'm the girl.

He smiles, and I smile back, feeling like a total moron, but hey, he's my little brother.

And that's just how things are.

* * *

I watch, unseen, as the Doctor expresses her disbelief.

"He's fine. The bleeding is gone, his organs are healthy. I don't understand it, but he's fine. He's better then fine. I just don't understand."

I've healed him fully, completely, and he will remember nothing of it, or of meeting me in the mine, or any of the interactions we've had in this timeline.

I observe the Winchesters and Bobby Singer as they celebrate the good news and make plans for Dean to return home. My work here is done, and I should report back to Uriel for further orders, but I can't take my eyes off of Dean.

The Dean I know is beat down, exhausted, tormented by his memories of hell and the fear of losing control. The Dean I know carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and the responsibility of Sam Winchester's welfare, a burden unfairly given to him early in his life by his father. John Winchester meant well, but he forever changed the way Dean would view himself and his own self-worth.

The Dean I am observing now is troubled; shoulders weary with the weight of knowing the cost his father has paid on his behalf. He's struggling with that weight, but this Dean can still smile, he can still joke with his brother, he can still see good in the world.

Over the next few years, that will be taken from him. In the next few months, he'll sell his soul to save his brother.

I wish I could stop this now, prevent this from happening, but my orders were to heal him, and nothing else.

The Dean I know once accused me of being a hammer, nothing more than a tool, useless for anything more than carrying out orders. I told him he was wrong. I have doubts. I have concerns that what we are doing isn't right.

The Righteous Man. This is what my superiors call him. Right now, he has no idea of what destiny holds for him.

I concentrate, and in an instant, I am at Uriel's side. We sit quietly on a snowy park bench, observing children playing in the snow.

Someone is killing angels, he tells me. They've captured Alastair. They intend to question him, and they want Dean to do the interrogation, using the _skills_ Alastair taught him in hell.

I don't feel this is the right course of action, and that it will only break Dean further. I say nothing. I was recently reminded that my orders demand obedience, and that I am expected to do as I am told, and that I am not to get too close to the man in my charge.

Therefore, I say nothing as Dean is led into the chamber with Alastair.

Waiting outside, listening to the demon scream, I wonder where these doubts will lead me.

I wonder if there will be anything left of Dean to save.

* * *

A day after Dean wakes up, we're back at Bobby's.

Dean's already tearing through newspapers, and looking online, trying to find a hunt, anxious as all hell to get back in it.

I really don't miss hunting, and it's been a good distraction to worry about Dean, to have all of my focus on him and getting him better. It took my thoughts off of what's going to happen to us in the future, the pall of Dad's last words to Dean still hanging over both of us.

The darkness is there, inside me, and I can feel it. It's scary, knowing what I know now about my powers, and the demon blood, and the other children like me. I know Dean would die himself before he ever hurt me, let alone kill me, and that worries me too.

He needs to be strong enough. If I turn evil, he needs to be willing to end it.

But then again, I know I'd never be able to do it to him if the situation were reversed.

"Sam, I think I found something. Haunting, up in Maine somewhere. Looks like an easy job, just the ticket, right?"

"Sure, Dean," I answer quietly, smiling at the smile on his face. Back in the saddle, Dean's favorite place to be, driving the Impala, with his 1911 tucked in his waistband.

"Dinner's ready boys," Bobby calls from the kitchen, and Dean hops up from the couch, huge grin on his face. Bobby's made burgers, Dean's favorite, with pie for dessert, of course.

Conversation around the table is pleasant, and we make it an early night, Dean anxious to head for Maine first thing in the morning.

I toss and turn most of the night. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he's fine, better than fine, completely friggin' healed. I can't understand how he went from dying one day to completely better the next.

Maybe he really does have a guardian angel.

The next morning, after showers and breakfast and coffee, we say our goodbyes and drop all our crap in the Impala's trunk. Bobby hugs both of us, and I noticed he holds on to Dean a little tighter than normal.

My brother's all smiles as he fires up the Impala's engine, basking for a moment in the sound and the vibrations rumbling through the car. He reaches under the passenger seat for his tape box, and pushes Zeppelin II into the tape deck, the music filling the car as we pull out of the yard's gate.

"Ramble On" is the first song up, and his grin grows wider as he jacks the volume.

"Couldn't have planned that better if I'd tried! Let's blow this joint, Sammy!" He floors the pedal, the Impala fishtailing slightly on the damp asphalt. We're heading east, into the sun, and the morning light makes Dean's face glow, and I smile with him. It's good to see him so happy, so full of life, singing along in his off-key style, as peaceful and content as he ever gets.

I lost my brother, then I found him again. He's alive. He's healthy. We're together.

There's nothing more I could ask for.


End file.
